


Disegno e Colore

by spinyfruit



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: (kinda), Alternate Universe - Artists, Alternate Universe - Historical, Eventual Romance, Heavy Drinking, Historical Hetalia, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pirate Spain (Hetalia), Renaissance Era, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-05 02:17:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 62,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11003919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinyfruit/pseuds/spinyfruit
Summary: A young, apprenticing artist, Lovino craves rationality, perfection, and self-possession, and has curated his life to one day attain that. He never expected a chaotic and brash painter to barrel into his life and test everything Lovino thought he wanted and knew of himself, his art, and his heart.





	1. Disegno

**Author's Note:**

> I’M BACK.
> 
> \--
> 
> If you want some historical context, reading this note will be helpful. If you want to learn on the way, that should be okay as well. I go slowly with the information. 
> 
> Antonio Carriedo will be “substituting” the famous and/or infamous Baroque artist Caravaggio who reached his highest popularity between 1600-1607. Antonio will still be Spanish, but working in Italy instead. (The Spanish Empire held some control over Italy in the 1500s-1600s, including Caravaggio’s birthplace Milan, so it works out okay.)
> 
> During this time, art was almost exclusively funded by the Pope, cardinals, other wealthy church members, and of course, aristocracy and royalty. Caravaggio/Antonio in particular was loyal to an Italian cardinal, and a wealthy, French nobleman. 
> 
> In place of this, Roderich Edelstein will be the Italian cardinal (based off of the premise he was born on the Austrian/Italian border and moved further south), and Francis Bonnefoy will play the wealthy French nobleman (of course).
> 
> (For the sake of historical accuracy, Antonio will also take on a kind of pirate-y character that Caravaggio famously had…) 
> 
> Feliciano Vargas is an apprentice of a pupil of Titian (or Tiziano Vecellio), abiding by the northern Italian school of colore/colorito, or painting directly on canvas without drawing preparation. 
> 
> Lovino Vargas is an apprentice of his grandfather, who is substituting Annibale Carracci: a rival artist of Caravaggio/Antonio’s and upholder of the older, Renaissance values: i.e. idealizing figures, painting what could be instead of what is, and placing greater value on drawing rather than color. (TO NOTE: Carracci/ Grandfather Rome was very successful in his own right, but at this point, his era was coming “to an end” as Caravaggio/or Antonio’s was just beginning. Hence, Lovino finishing his apprenticeship during the storyline.)
> 
> Lovino is also kind of being combined with one of Carvaggio/Antonio’s few friends, young artist Mario Minniti, who modeled for him on many occasions and with whom Caravaggio/Antonio likely held a romantic relationship. 
> 
> (Timelines are roughly kept true to history, but I skewed a few bits here and there to accommodate different characters and slightly different storylines--i.e. Spamano.)
> 
> This story covers what many agree is the end of the Renaissance and the beginning of the Baroque period.

_Disegno: I_ _talian word for "drawing”, disegno combines both the ability to draw, which facilitates invention, and the capacity for designing the whole. But it is the latter - the imaginative and intellectual core of this process - which gives_ _disegno_ _its characteristic gravitas and which underpins academic painting theories as well as the academic hierarchy of the genres. Philosophically, disegno is thought to represent the masculine half of making art, meaning the rational, thoughtful, and constant._

  

Rome, Italy

April, 1595

 

* * *

  

Dosing off in an art studio was a hard thing to do, and took a lot of practice. The room was filled with the bustling of students and assistants in and out, the strong smells of paint and linseed oil wafting in the air, along with the constant bickering of the artist to himself and everyone around him. But Lovino was raised in art studios, so all of the chaos was like a lullaby to him. And god dammit he was tired. So tired. So stinking tired…

“Lovino! Do you have the indigo paint?” the booming voice of his grandfather, the artist he apprenticed for, bellowed across the room. “Lovino!” he yelled again, this time louder.

Lovino groaned and slowly raised his forehead from the wood of the desk. “Which color?” he mumbled slowly, letting his eyes focus on the powders in front of him.

“Blue! Didn’t you hear me?” his grandfather pivoted in his stool, away from the large canvas, to glare at him. “Were you sleeping? It’s only nine in the morning, why are you sleeping?” Lovino heard some of the other assistants snicker. 

“Hold on, just a second,” Lovino grumbled and swiftly stood to his feet and reached for the blue powder, mixing it with oil. He rubbed some sleep out of his eyes as he mixed, probably smearing paint on his face, but who cares. Odd minutes later, he was stumbling away from the desk and bringing his grandfather a fresh container of indigo paint.

“Thank you,” his grandfather said gruffly, taking the paint ( _inspecting it carefully_ ), and setting it on his own small table.

Lovino shifted his weight awkwardly, keeping his hands balled in his pockets. His grandfather didn’t seem to notice, so he worked up the courage to blurt, “do you want me to help paint?... anything?”

His grandfather laughed amicably, like Lovino told a good joke. “Oh, Lovi. That’s not how things work around here, you know that. In another two years, perhaps. You still need to learn the art of the trade. Making paints, working on your draftsmanship,” he said soundly. “Ah, actually. After you finish making more paints and clean the used brushes, how about you work on some more drawings? I’ll think of some work for you to sketch." 

Lovino rolled his eyes to the ceiling, because he knew this was going to be the response. (It was the same reply everyday after all.) “Okay,” he muttered, and shuffled back to his own desk. The other apprentices, one older and the others just _better_ gave him a mix of sympathetic and pitying smiles. He hated that.

Lovino’s grandfather was one of the most successful working painters in Rome. He had a large studio, a dozen apprentices, and a list of loyal patrons. Right now he was working on a large canvas, about six by seven feet, featuring Venus, Adonis, and Cupid. It wasn’t even half-finished, and Lovino knew he could be of help. But there was tradition in becoming an artist, and it wasn’t something you were allowed to jump into whenever you pleased. In Lovino’s case, he’d been trying to crawl there for years, and it was still so damn hard.

He was sixteen, and it was his second year apprenticing. He started so late. Other artists started apprenticing between ten and thirteen. Lovino envied them all. He wished he had the drive so young. Drive? No, the _courage_. Leaving home, starting anew, being ridiculed and tested every single day. The only reason he was finally able to pursue his dream was out of jealousy and slight admiration his brother did it on a whim before him.

“Feliciano,” Lovino sighed, rubbing his forehead roughly. He hadn’t heard from him in a while, it was about time for another letter. He wondered what he was up to in Venice. Probably more than Lovino was doing, that was for sure.  

Lovino glanced over his shoulder, inspecting his grandfather’s table of paint jars with sharp amber eyes. They all seemed pretty full…perhaps there was a little time for him to draw now. At least then he would be doing something artistic, god dammit.

“Lovino!” an apprentice heckled. “Go ahead and bring over some more white, we’re going to need it soon.”

“Good thinking,” his grandfather chimed in. “Might as well make a little more black as well.”

Lovino slumped over the desk, brown hair falling over his eyes, and groaned. He was so sick of this shit.

 

* * *

 

Lovino had always drawn. He and Feliciano both. Their childhood was full of charcoal, contè, paper, canvas, and so much paint. It came natural to them, and it was encouraged by their family: a family of artists. Create and create. More and more. Find the beautiful.

It was a release for Lovino. If he didn’t draw he didn’t know what would happen. Maybe he’d combust from everything inside of him. He was so emotional, _so emotional_ , and he didn’t want to be. Drawing gave him a sense of control and well-being. If he could focus his attention to something unreal, and attempt to make it real or even greater, his emotions subsided and he didn’t feel so powerless.

“You’re so funny, Lovi,” Feliciano would giggle and flash an amused smile. “It’s the very opposite for me. I need to paint so that I can understand what I’m feeling.” His deft hands would hold a tall paintbrush and send swipes across a cream-colored canvas. “When I see it in color, it makes more sense. I can see what I’m feeling come to life, and then it becomes what my art is feeling.” 

Lovino always rolled his eyes, because he never understood.

He _still_ did not understand; not even now, when he was trying to become a painter.

The two fundamental aspects of painting - _disegno_ and _colore_ \- and Lovino and Feliciano had to divide them between themselves, as they do with everything else.  

Feliciano was always an excellent draftsman. He knew how to draw as well as Lovino, if not better. But it didn’t bring him any sense of calm: in fact, drawing was maybe the only time Lovino would see flickers of anger spark off of Feliciano’s eyes. And Lovino would have made fun of him for that, if it weren’t true that something similar happened when Lovino painted. He felt daunted and so helpless in front of a drawing he thought was beautiful enough already.

Why did the world need color anyway? In black and white, things were so simple and clear. It made sense to Lovino and it made sense of him.

These were thoughts and fears Lovino felt years ago, all throughout his childhood, but even now, apprenticing in a professional studio, he can’t say that they’re gone. He wanted to be a painter. Forever and always, that was the only profession for him. It was the only way he could live in this world.

 _Disegno e colore_. _Disegno_ versus _colore_.

Florentines like Raphael and Michelangelo believed in the power of _disegno_ over _colore_.

Venetians like Tiziano (Titian) and Giorgione believed in the power of _colore_ over _disegno_.

Lovino would believe in the former. He had to. Because if the greats could find a way to paint, so could he.

But drawing… _drawing_ would always be his true love.

 

* * *

 

Noon could not have reached soon enough. As soon as Lovino sensed that not only _his_ hunger tantrums were beginning, but the rest of the studio’s as well, he jumped from his chair, announcing, “okay, why don’t you guys keep working while I go get some bread and cheese and… fruit? That sound good?”

People murmured their additions, and Lovino made sloppy mental notes of them, but was more concerned with rushing out of the room in energetic, tense strides. He was not meant to sit around all day, for god’s sake. He was Italian. An artist! He had so much blood and emotion, he never knows what to do with it sitting there at the desk all day fidgeting with remedial tasks.

But fuck it. He was going to get lunch, and at least then he could burn off some frustration.

Of course, if it’s not one obstacle it’s another, more literal one. Lovino swung open the door with violent energy, and low and behold, there was a messenger standing shocked and (to Lovino’s pleasure, slightly scared) before him. But the messenger was quick to compose himself, and say:

“I have a letter for Roma and Lovina Vargas.”

Not again…

“It’s Lovino. That’s my grandfather. We’re not married. Don’t you know how to fucking read?” he quipped hastily, worrying that his grandfather would overhear and keep him in the studio to read the letter aloud (again). Lovino spotted the letter and snatched it from the messenger’s hand, pushing him out the door as he exited too. “Thanks for the letter, sorry I’m in a hurry,” he apologized loosely.

His breath eased when no calls from his grandfather came, and Lovino confidently fled down the street, opposite the forgotten messenger, with Feliciano’s letter in hand. He twirled around on his boots, suddenly unsure of his direction. He wanted to read the letter alone, but he was also damn hungry.

Lovino bit his lip, now fully aware of the passing crowd and the eyes and the stares and—

He frantically joined the wave of people heading towards the market, blending in easily (he hoped his brown-striped jacket and dark pants were nonchalant enough) with the other Romans. Perhaps he could read the letter after he picked up the food.

Fortunately, Rome’s fickle April weather was smiling down on Lovino mercifully. No rain, no problems. He was able to fight his way through the market stands, carrying bread, cheese, fruit, and salami in a makeshift cloth bag and race to an abandoned strip of steps off of the main road. He perched himself a few steps above the sidewalk, suddenly much more comfortable out of public view. He liked observing of course - he was an artist after all - but as soon as someone made eye contact, Lovino had a gut instinct to run for the hills.  

Lovino grabbed an apple, gripping it in his mouth, while he opened Feliciano's letter. As he rested the paper on his lap, he bit off a piece of the apple and gave one final sweep of the crowd before he’d allow himself to dream away.

But it seemed like the Romans were happy to be in good weather and good times today. Everyone was dressed far more colorfully than Lovino: the women in large flowing gowns, and the men in bright vests and jackets with sparkling boots. Lovino would blend in very nicely in this alleyway, he figured.

So he continued eating his apple, and read Feliciano’s letter:

_Cara famiglia,_

_I hope this letter finds you all so well!! I hope Rome is full of much more sun than Venice is!! When it rains here, it really rains! The whole world is floating on top of water and the buildings seem to sink lower and lower until it's just canals and—_

Lovino rolled his eyes with a smile. _What was with all of the damn exclamation points,_ he wondered.

_I’m sorry I haven’t kept in touch in a while. I even missed our birthday Lovino! I hope you had a good day. I received your paints though, grandpa! Thank you for that! I’ve already started to make use of them in fact. Your paints and the paints master Natalino has given me as well._

Lovino tossed his apple core to the floor and narrowed his eyes. He automatically reached for another apple and began eating again. More nervously this time. 

 _You see, Natalino has recommended I return to Rome soon. I’ve been helping complete his paintings for a year and a half now, and he says I should move onto a new studio. And in fact, I’ve already found another artist to work for—he’s a favorite of the pope apparently so nonno you might know him already! His name is...oh, his name is?? I know it, I promise, but things always slip my mind when I begin writing._  

_Anyway, by the time you both get this letter, I’ll be packing up here in Venice. I won’t arrive in Rome straight away. Natalino says I should go to Florence and see the sights for a bit. Make some studies of the artwork there. Is there anything you’d like me to pick up for you, Lovino?? Send me a letter! I’ll be with our cousins._

_I’m excited to live with you both again. Venice was lovely and I learned so, so much, but without my family, I’m afraid I got very lonely…_  

_Grandpa, be sure to keep me updated on your new painting! If you need any supplies in Florence, I’m happy to pick them up. Say hi to all of your assistants for me!_

_Lovino, I hope you’re doing well in Rome. Part of me wished you would join me in Venice, but I also understand that Rome is the right place for you. I can’t wait to see your art when I see you! And I can’t wait to see you!!_

_Keep drawing and painting, both of you!! I will hug you both very soon!_

_Un forte abbraccio,_

_Feli_

Lovino’s eyes flew over the page a few more times, taking in every word, letting each one sink deeper and deeper into his heart. Not only did Feliciano leave home first and become an apprentice first, but he was now graduating his apprenticeship and working as a real artist for another (apparently) famous artist in _ROME._

Lovino adored his brother and loved him with all of his heart, but dammit his pride as an artist and a sibling in the same art-driven family was ablaze. As soon as he was able to take one step forward, why was it that Feliciano was able to race yards ahead of him? 

He could see Feliciano’s return now. He’d probably be dressed in bright colors, like everyone today. Maybe blue or purple, because he likes those cool shades, and he’d run up to him smiling broadly with a face fairer and brighter, and holding none of the same envy or jealousy that weighed on Lovino. Feli was pure and great and talented.

Lovino chewed furiously on a piece of apple until he swallowed, and with the newly invigorated sun shining on him, he felt his skin burn inside and out. Lovino stamped his boot on the step.

“For god’s sake!! Why—” Lovino stopped in the middle of his curse when a swift black shadow loomed over him, darkening his eyes, and gripped Lovino’s shoulder with one strong, tan hand.

Lovino was stunned into silence by the physical contact and overwhelming darkness. He stared at the face far too close to him for any personal comfort, and saw a pair of wild, emerald green eyes gazing back at him.

“Wha—” Lovino started sentences, but didn’t know how to complete them. Was this a beggar? A thief? Should he feel like he was in danger? He felt cornered and under attack, but something about the sheer symmetry and frankly, _beauty_ of the face in front of him made him doubt that thought.

An unfamiliar feeling bubbled in Lovino’s veins as he stared at the stranger’s eyes, across his tan skin and curls of dark hair. But Lovino didn’t understand it. He didn’t know it. So in moments, he pushed the emotion down deep and faraway so he wouldn’t be distracted by it anymore.

“Um…” His eyes darted away from the stranger’s face, spotting a dagger at his waist. It wasn’t unusual for men to carry daggers and knives, but it did finally send a chill up Lovino’s spine as though he _finally_ grasped the possible severity of the situation.

Just as Lovino made up his mind to wrestle his way out of the strong grasp, the stranger relinquished his hand and stood back: he was still staring, and still casted a long black shadow over Lovino’s body. The stranger tilted his head and raised his fingers trapped in worn grey gloves to his lips. Lovino felt as though he was being...evaluated.

“Fuck this,” Lovino grumbled, trying best to swallow his hot face away. He crumpled the letter into his pocket and brashly pulled the cloth bag over his shoulder, still holding his half-eaten apple in one hand as he trotted down the steps. He half-expected to be yanked back by the same grip, but it didn’t happen. Not pushing his luck, Lovino paced faster and faster into the crowd, displeased that his face seemed to be growing hotter with each passing step. It was a good distance away now, so Lovino allowed himself to breathe a little easier.

“ _Boy_ ,” a smooth, masculine voice said.

So used to be heckled around the art studio, Lovino’s face unthinkingly tilted to his right and he saw the man from before - suddenly very tall and walking right beside him - addressing him.

Lovino wasn’t sure what to say, so he didn’t. Instead, he kept a firm frown and raised a brow.

Unfortunately, that seemed to spark humor in the stranger’s eyes, and his lips pulled upwards in a smile. “Not speaking to me? Well, I guess I have more to say than you would.”

Was that… was he _insulting_ Lovino now?

The man once again flung his hand onto Lovino’s shoulder, bringing their bodies closer together so that now Lovino was on the same path the stranger was. And that was not in the direction of the studio.

“Hey! I have to be somew—”

“I’m an artist you see,” the man interrupted uncaringly. “And I’m just now starting out on my own,” he glanced to Lovino, “had a bit of a tiff with the last artist I worked with. Don’t ask why.”

 _Wasn’t gonna,_ Lovino rolled his eyes.

Unluckily, Lovino caught another smirk by the stranger. Why the hell was he so amusing to this guy?

Now the stranger wrapped his arm completely around Lovino’s shoulders - like they were drunken friends on a night out - and kept talking to him casually.

“You see, I wanna do things differently than most of the artists around here and that seems to rub most people the wrong way. You may not know this, being so young, but the art world is a damn thing to work in. It’s all political: who you know, who you work with, how much money you have,” the stranger turned up his palm in a dismissive gesture. “Anyway, I’ve made a few paintings already, I don’t know if you’ve heard of them through the grapevine. _Cardsharps_ and _The Fortune Teller_?” He looked at Lovino curiously, but without an ounce of worry or expectation.

Lovino could tell… this guy genuinely didn’t care what Lovino thought of him. He really didn’t. But—

The fact is, Lovino did know those paintings. Or rather, he knew _of them_. He hadn’t seen them yet. They weren’t popular among general public, but in the art circles of Rome they were _and ARE_ a topic of discussion. Lovino almost smiled when he realized that this—this _vagrant_ is the guy his grandfather has been complaining about for months. But he kept his face smooth and looked away.

“Ah, so you have,” the stranger grinned. “Well, that’s surprising honestly. But makes me happy nonetheless.” He swung his free hand in front of Lovino’s body waiting for a handshake. “My name is Antonio Carriedo. Nice to meet you.”

So that was his name. Yes, he’d heard it often in the studio and at home. It was certainly a Spanish name, but Antonio’s Italian held no trace of an accent.

Lovino eyed him shortly before resigning to a fast handshake. “Yeah, sure.”

“If you don’t tell me your name, I’m going to keep calling you ‘Boy’, you know,” Antonio warned playfully.

“What do you want already?” Lovino snapped. Literally nothing was going his way today. The studio, the letter, and now he was being hassled by a beggar disguised as an artist probably.

Antonio stopped their walk, but kept both hands on his shoulders. “Model for me,” he said.

Well, that was _not_ what Lovino was expecting.

“Ha, ha, very funny,” Lovino replied tiredly, pushing Antonio’s hands off his shoulders. “Look I have to be somewhere, so I’m just going to go…” But as soon as he said those wishfully parting words, Antonio had snatched his wrist and held it forcefully. Lovino matched Antonio’s gaze, but it felt unequal. Lovino loved observing and memorizing the planes of people’s faces, but Antonio stared at Lovino as though he was picking him _apart_. Lovino’s eyes were wide and uncomprehending at the way Antonio addressed him.

“I’m serious,” Antonio said, this time deeper. “I was watching you earlier, and I want you as a model for my paintings.”

Lovino scrunched his brows, absolutely baffled. “You _cannot_ be serious.” If this guy was an artist, surely he’d know? Surely he’d know what the ideal is. What he should paint. Lovino was, as this man kept reminding him, a boy. Just a boy. “You’re an artist. Use your fucking imagination. Go look at some Raphael. Some Michelangelo.” Lovino tried yanking his wrist free, but Antonio’s grip was firm.

“You haven’t been listening then,” Antonio smiled slightly, “to everything they say about me, or what I’ve been saying. I don’t want to do what they do. I want to paint what I want to paint.” He nodded to Lovino and repeated, “will you model for me?”

A dark and traitorous corner of Lovino’s mind was secretly… flattered. Because even an insane artist had standards, right? Or something? Certainly he would not ask just any person to model for him. In fact, Lovino felt as though he would follow Raphael’s lead and simply combine the best parts of many people to make one perfect human being. Because what else would people want to look at, after all?

But the more rational, realistic remainder of his brain was furious, embarrassed, and insulted even imagining this taking place. To be pinned down by a pair of eyes that can see everything, and to be made into something he can’t control. No thanks, he’d rather do that himself.

“No,” Lovino replied again. This time evenly and gravely. Antonio still hadn’t let go, but it shifted the mood so that he at least peered at Lovino’s face with more curiosity than desire.

“Of course, I intend to pay you. If you’re in desperate need of money I can consider giving you more than my other models.”

My other models…

Lovino’s eyes glittered angrily when he finally snapped, “I’m an artist, you fucking bastard, not a goddamn model begging for money. So go find someone else!” The shock of that was enough for Antonio to forget his grip, and Lovino to yank himself free. He turned on his heel down the cobble-stone path, grumbling and blushing, but he made it only about ten feet before he realized he was walking the wrong way. So with a groan he swiveled around and retraced his steps, trying his best to ignore Antonio as he passed him by, but once again Antonio had his ratty gloved finger raised to his lips and was observing Lovino with keen eyes.

Lovino shook his head and passed him, refinding the path to the studio and stomping it deliberately. But he heard a close clapping of boots on his side, he didn’t have to look to his right to know that Antonio was _still_ following him.

“You were wearing such dark colors, I assumed you must be a simple boy. That was why I chose you,” Antonio was saying, but it seemed more like he was thinking aloud. “Of course I should have assumed you could have been a struggling artist like me, especially if you’ve heard of my paintings.”

Great. So there was really no reason to be flattered at all for being harrassed to model. Lovino was just a simple boy. He hadn’t seen Antonio’s paintings, but if that was what he was into, they must be absolute _shit._

“Except,” Antonio hummed as he removed his glove and ran a hand down Lovino’s sleeve. Lovino jumped out of the way, but Antonio appeared to have realized something anyway. “Your clothing is much finer than mine. So you’re not struggling at all. You just happen to like dark colors.”

“Congratulations, you know the value of good fabric,” Lovino muttered. He spotted the door of the studio and silently thanked God for the light at the end of the tunnel.

“You’re far too young to be be a successful artist though,” Antonio continued, “what is your name?”

“I am _not_ that young,” Lovino countered forcefully. “I’m sixteen.”

“So an apprentice then. You’re not a real artist yet.”

Lovino shook his head and launched for the doorknob of the studio. Antonio was as fast as he was a bastard though, and his hand reached the frame of the door the same time, keeping it firmly shut.

“This is Roma Vargas’s studio. You work for him?” Antonio confirmed.

Lovino glared at him, saying nothing. He knew his grandfather disliked Antonio, and his work, and as they were walking he wondered if it was a mutual feeling. But the way Antonio glanced over the door was almost… _dismissive_. Kind of condescending actually. Which was odd for someone dressed in layers of worn black and grey clothes to be turning his nose up a successful and commended artist by all those in Rome.

Antonio leaned closer, his dark curly hair framing his green eyes. “Some parting words of advice—if you want be a great artist, don’t be afraid to disagree with your master.”

“Are you saying you’re great?” Lovino mocked brashly. He kept his tone lighter than he wanted, because there was something about Antonio’s presence that contained an underlying, secret threat. He didn’t know what it was, but he felt… on edge.

Antonio grinned confidently. “I’m going to be,” he said, letting his hand slide from the door. Slowly, he moved away from the door to lean against the side of the building. “Mark my words, I will be the greatest painter in Rome soon.” He ended his promise with a wink.

Lovino rolled his eyes and pulled open the door. “Keep talking like that and God’s going to strike you down where you stand,” he warned sarcastically.

Before he had fully retreated inside the space of the studio he heard Antonio laugh: it was more charming than he expected. Humorous and full of radical emotion. “But I’m still standing,” he called back. “And if you ever change your mind about modelling, let me know,” was the last thing Lovino heard him say.

The door shut. Lovino should have felt peace in the dimly lit corridor. But all he could feel now was being still trapped under that crazed artist’s black shadow.

Who the hell did he just meet?

 

* * *

 

Lovino was silent the rest of the day. If his grandfather noticed, he didn’t bother him. He didn’t even reprimand him for being late with lunches for everyone. It seemed like everyone had something on their mind.

Lovino was thankful that at least once in a while his prayers were answered.

But try as he may, his encounter with Antonio was not something he could easily push out of his mind. He didn’t quite understand it. Lovino was raised with artists, and was constantly surrounded by artists, but none so far had acted in the way Antonio did. Of course, many artists were arrogant, and many boastful of their abilities. But to be a successful artist in Italy, and in Rome, one needed an air of propriety and respect. And as far as Lovino could tell, Antonio held very little regard for any artist other than himself.

Confidence. Feliciano had it too, but his was different. It was calm, subtle, and almost tranquil. He was raised with so much praise, tutelage, and resources, perhaps that was the reason.

Lovino could only assume that Antonio had none of that: he seemed like a wild, beast of an artist. That was the only way to put it.

 

* * *

 

“What are you drawing, Lovino?”

It was nighttime, and the rest of the apprentices had left for dinner and bed. It was just Lovino and his grandfather now. The studio was quieter and lit by candles. Lovino preferred it this way: his heart was calmer, and he thought more clearly.

Lovino didn’t glance up from his paper, but he heard his grandfather take a heavy seat beside him.

“Just studying some sketches of Raphael,” he replied blandly. By now, Lovino had drawn Raphael’s figures so many times they were trapped in his head: he loved and needed to draw them over and over.

His grandfather was more tender when they were alone together. Roma leaned on his paint-stained hand to watch Lovino’s pencil move across the page. “You’re such an excellent draftsman,” he commented fondly. “Just like Raphael.”

Lovino rolled his eyes, but a blush betrayed him nonetheless. “I am not,” he muttered. Then more quietly, “...yet.”

“After you’ve mastered drawing, your paintings will be so incredible I just know it,” his grandfather said. Lovino peered at him, and his tired dark eyes sparkled in the candlelight.

“What about Feliciano?” Lovino asked tentatively. He was never sure where his grandfather stood with Feliciano nowadays. It was a mix of sadness, pride, happiness, and sometimes anger.

“I’ve been thinking about him,” Roma said, his tone becoming more thoughtful. “I think he’s going to be all right. We may believe in a certain way, and I still believe it’s the right way, but the Venetians do very well in their style. It’s different, and that’s good. I wouldn’t want every artist in Rome to do things the way I do it, after all.” Roma laughed softly.

The comment released some tension in Lovino’s temples. At least things had finally come to pass between grandfather and Feliciano. Perhaps now Lovino could tell him about Feliciano’s letter.

“Actually, grandpa,” Lovino began. “I received a letter from Feliciano today.”

His grandfather hummed. “Yes, I figured that was why you were quiet all afternoon. What did he say this time?”

Lovino pressed his charcoal too deep for a moment, remembering the real reason he was quiet, and continued. “He said he’s finished his apprenticeship with Natalino and he’s moving back to Rome.”

“What?” his grandfather grinned. “Why that’s great! Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I was worried Feliciano had lost all his money or gotten a girl pregnant!”

Lovino almost laughed trying to imagine the second scenario in his head.

“Well, he also said he’s coming to work for an artist of the pope. He didn’t mention the name though, but he said it was the pope’s favorite…” Lovino added a bit more quietly. Now the jealousy had mostly transferred to melancholy. He tried to bite it down and focus on the lines of the face.

Roma’s posture shifted, but he didn’t seem displeased. Finally, a warm smile settled across his features. “Ah, he means Cesari. Yes, I’m familiar with him. Another artist of the Venetian style, so that makes sense for Feliciano. He’ll be happy there, I should think. And it’ll be nice to have him home again.”

Lovino hummed in reply, not steering his gaze away from the paper.

“When did he say he was coming home?”

“Um,” Lovino blanked for a second, trying to recall Feliciano’s ramblings. Quickly, he fished the crumpled letter from his pocket and slid it to his grandfather. “He said he was stopping in Florence first, and will come here after.” Lovino crouched over his paper again and muttered, “he’s as vague as always.”

“Sounds like him,” Roma chuckled, his face easing out of his day’s stress. He eyes Lovino, taking in the whiteness of his knuckles, and sighed. “Lovino,” he started. “Do you ever regret not joining your brother in Venice?”

Lovino’s head shot up from his drawing, and he stared at his grandfather incredulously. “What?” he barked. “No! Why would you even say that? I always wanted to work here.”

Roma smiled at Lovino knowingly. “But that makes me wonder if perhaps that was the mistake. I sometimes worry that working for me won’t push you to make your own way, and your own style.”

“Maybe if you let me paint, I can prove to you that that’s not the case!” Lovino raised his voice. “I know what I want to do. I want to draw—I want to create beauty and—and—I want to make things perfect. And I know I can!” Lovino was shouting now, convincing his grandfather at the same time he was trying to convince himself.

His grandfather was still smiling, now amused by another of Lovino’s tantrums. “Well, with an attitude like that, maybe you’ll go far after all,” he replied. Then a bit wistfully he looked away at the half-finished canvas. “I just wonder how much longer the Florentine style will continue. It seems odd, but maybe one day perfection won’t be interesting to people anymore. Maybe the Venetians, in their loose, colorful ways, are onto something better. Or… at least onto the next thing anyway.” Roma amended, keeping his pride while he could.

Lovino didn’t like hearing this. He made a choice to work in Rome and study old masters, and he didn’t want to hear his grandfather act so forlorn.

So he raised his chin and gave his grandfather a confident stare, “if they get bored of perfection, I’ll just have to make something better.” Lovino didn’t even know what that meant, but he liked the sound of it, and god dammit if he wasn’t already dead set on his ways. He wasn’t about to give in now.

His grandfather’s booming laughter made the charcoal slip from Lovino’s fingers, and the subsequent claps on his back refrained him from picking it up.

“Ah, that’s my boy. You’ll be great, don’t you worry,” his grandfather complimented more spiritedly. He was so moody these days… must have been old age. Slowly, he stood to his feet to begin blowing out the candles. “We should head home soon. It’s too dark for you to draw.”

Lovino rolled his eyes. He could still see plenty well. But he was hungry so he relinquished his drawing to help clean up.

Things quieted between them as they shared their duties. For a while, Lovino let it be, but after a dozen minutes passed his heart began to pick up with the opportunity to pose a question. He paused while drying some brushes.

“So grandpa,” he blurted.

“Hmm?”

“I was talking to some of the assistants today and they mentioned two paintings called _The Cardsharps_ and _The Fortune Teller—_ do you know them?” Lovino kept his voice light and his back turned away, but somehow, he still felt his grandfather’s tension in the air.

“Who was talking about them? Was it Marco?” Roma asked accusingly.

Lovino gave a shaky sigh, trying to feign annoyance. “I can’t remember. This was weeks ago. I was just wondering what you thought of them? And where they were? I don’t believe I’ve heard of the artist before, so I was curious why they’re so damn famous.”

“Famous or infamous, more like it,” his grandfather muttered, and Lovino felt a bit guilty feeling the good mood fade away. “The artist has a bit of a rocky reputation. Came down to Rome after one too many brawls in Milan, so I hear. Met him once: very excitable fellow. And very messy, like his paintings.”

“Oh,” Lovino squeaked, “so they’re no good?”

His grandfather was silent for a moment in thought. “They’re… different. Not at all what you would like. He doesn’t work in our way, but not quite in the Venetian way either. In fact, I can’t think of anyone quite like him, whatever that means.”

Lovino frowned. He didn’t find the description very helpful.

“I guess the best way to put it is that you know how we paint the ideal? Something greater than what we can see? The most beautiful thing?” his grandfather let that linger, and added, “well, Carriedo wants to destroy that completely. He doesn’t like it. He’s known for pulling random people off the streets and having them pose as saints—as saints, Lovino!” Roma shook his head. “He’s not failing though, or at least not yet. If he can get a patron, who knows what’ll happen.”

_I’m going to be the greatest painter in all of Rome soon._

“For fuck’s sake,” Lovino grumbled furiously, recalling the smooth ( _too smooth_ ) proclamation.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” Lovino snapped too loudly. He took a deep breath and smoothed his hair. “I just said that I bet I’ll be greater than him.”

“Oh?” his grandfather turned around to give Lovino a more curious, open stare. “Well, it’d certainly be good for that guy’s ego to have some competition.”

“Yes,” Lovino agreed, heart pounding. He slammed down the brushes and grabbed a rag. " _It would_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments are most appreciated!


	2. Cartoon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point, Lovino and Feliciano are sixteen, Ludwig is twenty, Antonio is twenty-four, and Gilbert is twenty-five.

_Cartoon: preliminary drawing for a future fresco painting, typically made in charcoal, graphite, or lead._ _Cartoons are essential when painting in Fresco not only as the main guideline for transferring the design onto freshly laid plaster, but also as the main tool and method of understanding and orchestrating the steps for painting of the corresponding fresco._

 

Rome, Italy

June, 1595

 

* * *

 

Feliciano arrived at the house wearing a bright purple and blue vest, shiny new boots, and a brilliant smile. It’d been some time, and he was definitely growing up as Lovino was, but the easiness in Feliciano’s spirit was just the same. It was as though all the stone walls of the house heaved a sigh of relief when Feliciano giggled on the doorstep.

“Lovino!” he cheered, pulling his brother into a hug. Lovino grumbled, but Feliciano continued anyway, “ah, how I’ve missed you! I have so many gifts! How are the cats doing? Where’s grandpa?” Feliciano pulled away, and Lovino had almost forgotten how absolutely _sparkling_ his brother’s face was.

Lovino gave a short laugh, but quickly made his face displeased again. “Oh, well he’s taking a nap. It’s his Sunday tradition after all. And we didn’t know when to expect you.” He reached for one of Feliciano’s many bags, and it was as heavy as it looked. Lovino shook his head.

“Oh yeah,” Feliciano fluttered around his bags, pulling two (smaller) bags up himself. “So I did a bit of shopping on the way here… But before you say anything! It’s almost all art supplies! Florence had so many nice things, you know? And you have to try some of the paints from Venice.” Feliciano stared intently at his brother’s face, hoping for some form of approval. “I also got some clothing for you and grandpa! Neither of you go shopping at all, and surely your cloaks are old now.”

“It’s the beginning of summer,” Lovino replied blandly. But even Feliciano could see that his eyes betrayed a glimmer of kind humor.

Feliciano’s lips curled in another smile, this time more satisfied. “You’re happy to have me back, aren’t you?” His stride inside was light and airy.

Lovino grabbed another bag, and followed with heavier, clunkier steps. It felt like he was carrying _furniture_. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. But secretly, he _was_ happy.

The little Vargas house, a small yellow building in Trastevere, was bursting with laughter and weeping from too much wine that Sunday night. Feliciano ran all across the house. He awed at the newly planted flowers lining the sils of all the windows, whined at how much smaller his room seemed, and cooed over the cats - Angelo and Rafa - on how much fatter they’ve gotten. Their grandfather was red with laughter and joy to have his two grandsons together under the same roof, and Lovino was quietly observing it all take place until he was drunk too. Then he laughed with them.

It was strange at how normal things were to have Feliciano once again a part of the household. Things were fuller. (Feliciano had so many things after all.) And life became more comfortable. Lovino didn’t crave companionship; he felt as though he received all of the companionship he needed from his work. But with a friend in the household, debatably his _only_ friend, he felt a bit more relaxed at home and at the studio.

Feliciano was infuriatingly talented and far more charming, but he was also a real pleasure to be around. He showered Lovino with compliments each morning and night and constantly asked to see his drawings. It made Lovino… _happy_.

He was truly happy to have his brother home. Stubborn as he was, he couldn’t deny that much.

 

* * *

 

When Lovino asked Feliciano about his work with Cesari, he did so flippantly, every single day. But there was a genuine curiosity laden in his questions. Feliciano said he mainly helped out with painting details, like fruit and leaves, but occasionally was allowed to do more important things like painting the background. It fascinated and eased Lovino’s ego to know that even after graduating from apprenticeship, working for a more accomplished artist was filled with more of the same small task work. So at some point, Lovino listened with less interest when Feliciano was describing his days. After all, they sounded very much like his, so why bother?

It wasn’t until an early Wednesday evening, a few weeks after Feliciano’s arrival in Rome, that Feliciano said a name Lovino could _not_ ignore. He was so surprised Feliciano had said it, his head shot up from his plate of spaghetti and dumbly asked for Feli to repeat.

Feliciano appeared genuinely taken aback. “ _I said_ … Cesari has recommended I see a newly purchased painting by one of his former employees, Antonio Carriedo. It’s called _The Cardsharps—_ that important Cardinal Edelstein bought it. He said I can go see it at the Palazzo Madama tomorrow, since he’s going too. Would you like to come?”

Circuits in Lovino’s brain that hadn’t been used in months started firing. There was a conspicuous, secret emotion that flooded his veins, but Lovino did not know, nor care to know what it meant. He decided it was curiosity. A type of furious curiosity for the stranger, whom he met only once on an odd day in April. Lovino hadn’t seen Antonio since, but it was rare that he went by a full week without hearing “Carriedo did this” and “Carriedo did that”. So of course, with such an odd drama of an encounter he’d be curious, right?

It had surely been moments since Feli had spoken because he was looking at Lovino with the most feline expression.

Lovino had to kick himself forward in his chair to get himself to say, “Um, yeah. I’m curious.” But his tone was so obviously off-beat, he clarified with a smooth lie. “It’s just that… Well grandpa dislikes him, so do you think maybe there’s a way we can lie about which painting we’re seeing? I’m sure he won’t mind I miss a day though.”

 _It’s not like I do anything important there anyway,_ Lovino thought to himself.

Feliciano brightened with his reply. Feliciano, sweet as he may be, loved the opportunity to pull a docile lie every once and in a while.

“Why, of course! I’ll say we’re seeing someone else. No problem at all,” he said, laughing. Feliciano had an odd way of making deviousness sound cute.

Lovino rolled his eyes and raised a glass of wine to his lips. For the first time in a while, he wondered what tomorrow would bring. He really did wonder.

 

* * *

 

Palazzo Madama was a beautiful and large golden building, bordering Piazza Navona. Lovino had passed by it before of course, because avoiding Piazza Navona in Rome was impossible. But seeing it now, in broad daylight with something different at stake, made him look at it was a more particular eye.

It was a beautiful building. Lovino held a great appreciation for architecture, and there were many instances where he felt as though he would have better suited for it. The building was well sculpted, majestic and strong. He didn’t know where the cardinal lived, or whether he owned all of the building right now, but it was nonetheless impressive.

Feliciano was by his side humming. He was wearing a glistening green vest and the cleanest of his white blouses underneath (the one he never wore while painting). Lovino probably should have taken more note of his own appearance. Once again he was wearing dark colors—was there a reason he was drawn to wearing them? A dark blue tunic and black trousers and boots.

Lovino convinced himself it didn’t matter, because after all, these were the colors he liked.

Feliciano was apparently done admiring the outside of the building and began skipping his way to the entrance. Lovino followed in long, heavy steps—less aware of what he was doing and more aware of what he could possibly be doing wrong.

But apparently one door was left wide open for visitors. Lovino was sure the only visitors who’d be coming here were other artists: because who else had heard of Antonio Carriedo at this point?

“Oh, wow!” Feliciano gasped, once inside. “It’s quite magnificent, isn’t it? I wonder why I haven’t been in here before.”

“Perhaps because we weren’t invited,” Lovino muttered, but even he wasn’t sure what he said was accurate. Lovino led such a reclused life, he never bothered to venture any place that wasn’t absolutely necessary. For all he knew, he was missing open art exhibitions left and right, because he simply didn’t care.

There was someone to greet them at the end of the entrance. He was in uniform and pointed them to the grand staircase to their left. Feliciano was trotting up the steps fast, while Lovino lingered slowly behind, letting his boots clack loudly and his eyes run surely across all of the surroundings. He didn’t know when he’d be back, so he tried to take in as much as possible.

Once they reached the top another man, also dressed in a smart uniform told them to continue up the stairs. Feliciano darted up in an instance, of course. But Lovino let his eyes wander the second floor and its paintings, before continuing the journey upwards.

Even along the stairs, Lovino could hear chatter of many people. And if there was one thing that made Lovino uncomfortable, it was large, anonymous crowds. He mentally steeled himself as he made the last tread forwards to the third floor. Feliciano was already granted a glass of wine and as soon as Lovino had set food on the new floor, Feli shoved a glass into his unprepared hand.

“Here, here,” he rushed, “take it. They’re about to start talking.”

Lovino fumbled with the glass, spilling some wine on the floor, before finally settling it against his chest. “What?” he whispered. “Who’s talking? Why?”

“The cardinal,” Feliciano hushed back. “Followed by the artist of course.”

Lovino leaned back on his heels and took a big swig of wine. He supposed he should have expected this. Feliciano guided him a little further into the crowd. As they shuffled through, Lovino carefully eyed the people nearby. They all had rough and stained working hands like he and Feliciano. Most of them looked to the front of the room with tense and inquisitive eyes. A few even seemed fascinated. Feliciano still hadn’t found a spot he was pleased with, but the cardinal had already began speaking.

“As you know two months back, I came across a rather extraordinary painting, in every sense of the word,” he spoke slowly, kind of haughtily. “It is called _The Cardsharps_ , and when I saw it I was struck by the rare naturalness of the work. The artist managed to capture real people engaged in an event we see often on the streets here in Rome…”

Feliciano pulled Lovino with him, and finally they were placed very conveniently against an empty space in the wall, and with a full view of Cardinal Edelstein, all dressed in red standing to the side of a large oil canvas. He seemed pretty young to be a cardinal, in Lovino’s opinion; but Edelstein certainly had the _manner_ of an old man. He was dark-haired and fair skinned, with deep-blue eyes narrowed very tight like he couldn’t see too well.

“Oh, look, look!” Feliciano whispered, and patted Lovino’s shoulder. “That must be the artist over there, right?”

Lovino followed Feliciano’s gaze to a dark corner on the other side of the painting. Antonio was standing there, dressed in black from head to toe including his hat, and tapping his foot with furious frequency. Lovino half-expected Antonio, presenting a purchased painting to the cardinal, would be racing around the room yelling about how great he was. But then… Lovino had only met him once, so maybe he didn’t know him well at all.

“He looks a bit intimidating, doesn’t he?” Feliciano murmured, catching the impatient glare on Antonio’s green eyes.

Lovino shrugged his shoulders, returning his attention to the cardinal.

“So after purchasing _The Cardsharps_ I approached Antonio Carriedo with another offer: that I be the patron of his future works.”

Lovino’s eyes widened and he looked again to Antonio. The cardinal was actually his _patron_ now? For whatever reason, Lovino understood that this was a one-time purchase, but no, Antonio had a patron now. And a wealthy one too. Cardinals were among the best patrons of the arts.

Lovino noticed that at the end of that sentence, Antonio’s lips curled ever-so-slightly in a satisfied smile and a mischievous glint returned to his eyes.

“Antonio is already working on another piece, which will be presented in the fall,” the cardinal said. Lovino automatically pressed his lips together in annoyance—it’s not as though _he_ was painting the damn thing. How did he know when it’d be ready? “But anyway, I will let Antonio say a few words about _The Cardsharps_ and then you all are free to take a closer look.”

Antonio left his corner with a violent few steps, catching everyone’s attention with the dramatic flash of his black cloak. He was talking almost as soon as he was moving: “I began this painting after I left the great artist, Cesari—I’m sure you all know of him.”

Feliciano giggled a little, probably proud his master was mentioned. Lovino rolled his eyes thinking Antonio was probably _compelled_ to mention him. He didn’t say his name with any trace of respect.

“I want to paint real people and real scenes,” Antonio stated, his green eyes swept the crowd wildly. Lovino looked away. “So for _The Cardsharps_ I searched the streets for real people and asked them to pose for me. Many people have commented on naturalness of my work, and that is the simple reason why.” He waved his hand in front of his painting brashly. “I also learnt in the Venetian style, which is why many have noticed the luminosity in this painting. I find their application of color heightens the drama and makes for a more powerful painting.”

Once again, Feliciano was giggling, but of course he would this time. This whole event was like affirmation to him.

Antonio continued talking for a few minutes, elaborating more on the process than the subject itself. Perhaps he realized that was what most people were interested in. After he finished he retreated back to his dark little corner, glancing back at the painting as if looking at it for the first time too. The cardinal spoke again and gave people permission to come closer to the painting and ask the artist questions.

As people began brushing Lovino’s shoulders and passing him by, he wondered what they were to do next. But Feliciano preemptively grabbed his arm and said, “we need to find my new friend Gilbert. He works for Edelstein too, so maybe he can introduce us to the artist.”

Yeah, Lovino wasn’t sure how interested he was in “meeting” the artist. But before he could get a word in edgewise, Feliciano was whipping his head around, curls flying, trying to find his friend. He pushed himself up on Lovino’s shoulder, standing on his tippy-toes to gain a better vantage point.

“Why don’t you just yell his name at this point?” Lovino grumbled sarcastically.

“Well, I could, but I’m afraid people might look,” Feliciano replied, thinking Lovino meant it. “Oh! Wait, I think I see him. He’s wearing grey. Over there.” Feliciano raised his free arm, trying to get his friend Gilbert’s attention.

Lovino found the man in grey Feliciano was talking about, just as Gilbert spotted Feliciano’s hand. Not only was Gilbert wearing grey, but his hair was grey too: so grey it was almost white. Yet, as he approached Feliciano, Lovino saw that his face was quite young, if also a bit pale.

Gilbert pushed through the crowd, and when he finally reached Feliciano, his face wore a rather foolish expression of triumph for having managed it. He balanced a wine glass in front of him and boasted, “see that? Weaved through a dozen people and didn’t let a single drop slip.”

Lovino raised a brow while Feliciano laughed.

“Very good, Gilbert!” Feliciano complimented with a small clap. “There are a lot of people here, aren’t there?”

Gilbert grinned and looked back at Antonio—he was lecturing a group of seven now. “Yeah, well Antonio’s a bit of a character, so I think that might’ve been a big reason. Seems like he’s doing okay though. No fights yet,” Gilbert raised his glass to his lips and smiled to Feliciano. “If you want to meet him, I can introduce you. He’s a bit intense though, just so you know.” Lovino just noticed that Gilbert’s eyes kind of had a _reddish_ tint to them… It was a bit unnerving to look at. But he stared a little too long, because in the next moment Gilbert looked behind Feliciano to where Lovino was standing.

“Oh,” Feliciano gasped, and pointed to Lovino. “This is my brother, Lovino. I told you about him, right?” Feliciano patted Gilbert’s arm and explained, “Gilbert and his brother are painters from Germany, but they’re living with the cardinal now, like Antonio. Isn’t that cool?”

That explained the accent, the pallor, and maybe the strange sense of humor…

What it did not explain was the rather unnerving look Gilbert was giving Lovino. It was hard to decipher what it meant, because the red eyes really threw Lovino off, but it kind of seemed as though he was realizing something the longer he stared at Lovino’s face.

“Can you introduce the both of us to him, Gilbert?” Feliciano asked enthusiastically, eyes alight.

Gilbert turned to him and plastered a wide grin on his face. “Oh yeah, of course. Just follow me.” He began walking into the crowd, and Feliciano followed.

Lovino stayed very firmly planted against the wall, however, and Feliciano didn’t make it three steps before noticing.

“Lovino?” Feliciano called, halting Gilbert’s walk as well. “Don’t you want to meet him?”

Lovino pressed his lips together and ran a hand through his brown hair, debating how to answer this. He tried to play it off easily. “Nah, I’m good. Go on ahead.” But Feliciano didn’t like that.

“What? Come on! Join me! Maybe we won’t ever see him again!”

“I’m really okay, Feliciano.”

“But why? Are you scared?” Feliciano asked. Gilbert was watching their conversation with a quiet but mirthful expression.

Lovino sighed, already drained. “No, I’m not scared. I just…” he shrugged his shoulders and looked away. “I already met him, so you know—I’m good."

“What?!” Feliciano practically shrieked. “You did? When?”

Lovino groaned. “Doesn’t matter. Just go. I’ll see you outside.” He placed his glass on a table nearby, and started walking. But the room was fuller than it was when he entered, and Lovino struggled pushing past all the new bodies. If Lovino touched them, they turned their nose up at him with the most disapproving frown. Lovino tried his best to ignore and continue going though.

There aren’t many words or names that can cut through a crowd and reach Lovino’s ears, but as Lovino had stumbled into a man’s back he heard something that made his palms sweat.

“Boy!” Antonio shouted, his smooth voice carrying surprisingly well and strong through an orchestra of Italian jabbering.

Lovino shut his eyes and cursed to God that once again he was found in a most unflattering situation. He wasn’t stuffing his face with an apple, but as he peered over his shoulder he recognized how hot his skin burned. Surely his face was _glowing_ in sweat when he matched eyes with Antonio.

Antonio smiled playfully, eyes dangerously sharp.

Feliciano and Gilbert hadn’t reached him yet, so it was purely bad luck that foiled Lovino’s attempt at a clean escape. Antonio’s call didn’t halt the room (thank God), but it did pull many curious stares, including the cardinal’s.

“Uh, yeah. Hi,” Lovino gave a short wave, frowning to the watchful crowd with wide eyes. “Bye,” he also said and scrambled through a few more people.

“I thought you were here to model for me!” Antonio cheered after him, earning some laughs from the crowd.

On instinct, Lovino spun around and flipped Antonio off. “Go fuck yourself,” he yelled.

It didn’t take longer than two seconds for Lovino to comprehend that he had just cursed and thrown indecent gestures in front of a public crowd and, more importantly, in front of a _cardinal_. Most of the room had gone quiet in shock. The cardinal’s face was as red as his cloak. Antonio was the only one truly laughing.

“God dammit,” Lovino muttered, and stomped out the room. With nothing left to lose, he gave one last shout: “Your painting sucks, by the way!”

Lovino ran down the stairs panting and flushed from his cheeks to his neck. He cursed and cursed under his breath, until he finally reached the outdoors.

A little out of breath, Lovino came to terms with one thing.

He was definitely going to hell.

 

* * *

 

August, 1595

A few months had passed since Lovino and Feliciano had visited Antonio at Palazzo Madama. For a long time, Feliciano would pester him with questions: _why_ Lovino didn’t tell him that he knew Antonio, _why_ Antonio wanted Lovino to model for him, and _why_ Lovino yelled in front of the cardinal. Lovino’s honest answers didn’t make Feliciano any less relentless in his interrogation.

Apparently Feliciano _liked_ Antonio. They had a _good_ conversation and really _connected_.

Lovino could only assume that after Feliciano’s little chat, Antonio must know his real name now, and he had mixed feelings about that.

But eventually, things more or less returned to normal. Lovino continued working at the studio, and Feliciano working with Cesari. Lovino had newly committed himself to being a stone cold recluse after that little stunt, but Feliciano enjoyed more and more the nightlife of Rome. He talked often about Gilbert, and the other German brother, Ludwig. Lovino assumed they must have been Feliciano’s frequent drinking companions.

Feliciano begged and pleaded for Lovino to join them on the weekends, but Lovino very confidently turned him down each time. But dammit if Feliciano wasn’t persistent.

When it was Ferragosto, the public Italian holiday celebrated on the fifteenth of August, Feliciano tried again. He didn’t convince Lovino, but their grandfather, overhearing their conversation slammed his fork on the dining room table and shouted, “Lovino, for god’s sake, go out tonight and have a good time with your brother!”

“What?” Lovino demanded, clearly surprised their grandfather chimed in. “Why should I?”

“Because he’s your brother and it’s a holiday and for once in your life just go out and enjoy your damn youth,” he ordered. And when grandpa ordered something, Lovino felt like his apprentice, which left no room for saying no.

So he shrank in his chair and cursed to the ceiling, while Feliciano practically shrieked in delight.

“Great. A bunch of drunk assholes. Sounds like a wail of a time,” Lovino muttered.

“Try to keep your mouth shut and you’ll be fine,” Roma offered blandly.

But Lovino didn’t find his words very comforting.

 

* * *

 

To placate Lovino, Feliciano took him to a bar in Trastevere, so not too far from home. It was crowded, loud, and damp. Lanterns and candles lit the interior, and Lovino realized the stone floor was stained red with so much spilled wine. What an omen.

“Come, come! There’s a free table over there!” Feliciano smiled, pulling Lovino further and further into this dark and mysterious space. 

“Can’t we just sit at the bar or something,” Lovino complained. At least there were fewer people there.

Feliciano plopped down on the bench of the table. “Of course not! We’re meeting people here, so this is perfect”

“Meeting which people?” Lovino demanded gravely. He’d purposefully dressed in his blandest clothes, hoping to blend into the scene and not fetch too much attention. He wore what was perhaps the dingiest olive vest possible, over a stained grey long-sleeve shirt, along with his scuffed, black boots.

Meanwhile Feliciano was glistening in a shiny, crimson outfit paired with golden buttons which practically screamed _Hey, look at me! Join us! Join us!_

“We’re meeting my friends of course!” Feliciano smiled, and his eyes twinkled honey-gold. “What do you want to drink?”

Lovino leaned over the table and clasped his hands together. “I don’t know. Pick a red wine for me.”

Feliciano fetched them a carafe of red wine. And by red wine, it was truly only described as _red wine_. Lovino took a sip and assumed they were just throwing random bottles together in different carafes and serving it. The crowd was drunk enough to not notice anyway.

He couldn’t help but grimace as he forced a glass down. If he was going to socialize he knew he’d have to get at least two glasses in his system to tolerate it all. Feliciano was buzzing with a nervous energy, and he kept babbling with questions like “I wonder where they are” and “they’re so late”. Frankly, Lovino didn’t give a damn if they never showed up at all. He was content drinking his shitty wine and silently making fun of the drunken strangers.

Lovino heard some shouting on the street, and wondered mildly what was going on out there. Meanwhile, Feliciano excused himself from the table to use the restroom.

Lovino sat with his empty wine glass and carafe quietly, feeling his eyes grow heavier. But then the shouting neared until the door of the bar burst open and, what Lovino could only describe as a _gaggle_ tumbled into the bar. It took a while for Lovino to understand what was going on, but it seemed like there were two men being pulled away from a fight. There was a shorter, blond man with thick brows and flushed face screaming in… English, it sounded. Lovino couldn’t make any sense of it, but it sounded dumb. He was being dragged back out the bar door by three other men with matching eyebrows and accents.

“Yeah, yeah! Keep moving! Or else I’ll beat the shit out of you too!”

Lovino knew that voice and rough accent. It was Gilbert, the German, flipping off the Englishmen and kicking the bar door shut.

“Gilbert, that wasn’t really necessary, was it?”

“What do you mean it wasn’t necessary?! Did you see what they did to his arm?” Gilbert addressed the taller of the other two. The blond, who was the one talking with Gilbert, also had a slight accent. They didn’t share much resemblance, but the blond was also bear-hugging another man, trying to keep him trapped in his arms, so his expression was contorted in deep frustration.

“Yes,” the blond said, clearly exasperated, “but that’s not exactly calming him down!” He cursed in German and shouted, “Oh, I give up!” He let go of the man, cloaked in all black, and oh shit—

Lovino’s eyes widened realizing it was Antonio. And _damn_ did he look mad.

Antonio rushed to his feet in one violent motion and made an attempt to walk out the door.

Gilbert pushed him back with his hand, warning, “oh, no, no, no. You’re not going anywhere. Take a seat at a table.”

“And let him get away?” Antonio demanded furiously. “The hell with that! Let me through! I need to teach that English asshole a lesson.”

Gilbert was pushing Antonio back like he was trying to hold up a tree. “Ludwig!” Gilbert called. “A little help here!”

The blond - apparently called Ludwig - roughly pulled Antonio away by the shoulders, ignoring Antonio’s swings, and shoved him against the bar. There was an icy stoicism about Ludwig that unnerved Lovino, especially since he could apparently manage to keep Antonio under control.

Gilbert caught his breath and skipped up to them. “Okay,” he said and quickly grinned. “How about we get another carafe? Sound good?”

Antonio took a small step away from Ludwig and straightened his hat. His eyes were still fuming a dark emerald green, and it made the hair on Lovino’s neck stand on end.

Ludwig was the one who replied, looking a little more apprehensive. “Actually, I think Feliciano should already be here. We should probably find him first.”

“Speak of the devil!” Gilbert exclaimed, and pointed to Feliciano.

Feliciano rushed up to them wide-eyed and surprised. “There you guys are! We were waiting for you! What took you so long?” Feliciano fluttered near the bar, unsure of what to do, or what was happening.

Ludwig sighed and ran a hand over his face, but Gilbert gave an odd laugh, saying, “Oh, well we were at another bar earlier, and Antonio here got himself in a bit of a fi— _hey!_ Antonio!”

Lovino had been watching Feliciano and the Germans so curiously he hadn’t paid attention to Antonio. Lovinno was looking at Gilbert, and at some point noticed that Gilbert was looking at him, but also, at the figure approaching him.

Antonio, with his tan skin, curly hair, and bright, fiery gaze, stood boldly in front of Lovino. Before Lovino could fully comprehend what was happening, Antonio had swung his swung his leg around the bench and sat down beside him.

The fury that had consumed Antonio’s features just minutes ago wasn’t there anymore, but there was still something hot clouding his eyes.

Antonio rested his chin in his palm and kept staring. “Lo-vi-no,” he said slowly, enunciating the syllables.

Lovino looked up in vague annoyance. “You know my name. Congrats,” he deadpanned. As discreetly as he could, he tried to tuck himself closer into the wall. The same odd bubbling feeling returned to his veins, his stomach, and chest, and Lovino didn’t quite understand the source.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier? It’s an easy enough name to say,” Antonio continued smoothly, the tension in his brows releasing as he sat there.

Lovino’s face felt warm and he didn’t like the sudden attention. Awkwardly he peered over Antonio’s head and yelled, “Feli, bring over another damn carafe already!”

“You might as well make it two,” Antonio added, still looking at Lovino.

Lovino furrowed his brows together. “What is it? Why are you staring?”

The comment seemed to surprise Antonio, and his face left his hand. “Sorry… I was thinking about something,” he said and turned away.

Lovino blinked. Had Antonio just apologized? That was… _odd_. It even looked like he was troubled by something now.

Lovino leaned forward and inspected Antonio’s face. His skin seemed warmer than usual. “Are you drunk?” Lovino asked.

Antonio looked back at him, a small smile curling his lips and his eyes were dark. “It’s a holiday after all. Why aren’t you?”

Lovino bit his lip, unsure of how to reply to that. Antonio looked back at the table, the same troubled look hardening his face again.

Their awkward silence was kindly interrupted by Gilbert and Feliciano gleefully returning to the table with not one, or two, but three carafes in hand. They slid them across the table, and Lovino automatically stretched his arm across the table to grasp it. But Antonio grabbed it first and poured his glass and Lovino’s, before passing it to Gilbert.

Gilbert grasped the carafe with a careful grin, letting his eyes flash from Antonio to Lovino before allowing himself to turn away and fill the rest of the glasses. Ludwig was the last to arrive and brusquely dropped a dirty rag in front of Antonio, before settling on the other side of the table next to Feliciano and Gilbert.

Lovino raised a brow, but Antonio silently rolled up his right sleeve, revealing a long dark cut that ran from his bicep to mid-forearm.

“Holy shit, are you okay?” Lovino blurted. He watched Antonio make casual work of tying the rag over his arm, seemingly not too affected.

“Yeah,” Gilbert laughed shortly. “I was telling Feliciano earlier. We had a bit of a bad run-in at another bar. That’s why we ran late.”

“You should probably get that looked at tomorrow,” Ludwig commanded.

Antonio didn’t say yes or no, but he did thank him for the rag.

“Oh!” Feliciano exclaimed. “Lovino have you met Ludwig? He’s Gilbert’s brother and also a painter.”

Ludwig nodded to him with a small smile, and Lovino returned the same greeting. Feliciano and the Germans seemed to have more in common with each other, or at least a more upbeat mood at the moment, so they soon carried on a conversation among themselves.

Lovino silently drank his wine, and as soon as he finished his glass Antonio was pouring him another.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” Lovino asked suspiciously.

“I’m trying to help you relax. You’ve practically melted in the wall,” Antonio said, looking at Lovino with twinkle in his eye.

Lovino didn’t realize he was being so obvious, and a new blush spread across his cheeks.

“Shy,” Antonio hummed to himself and pulled his torn sleeve over the makeshift bandage.

Lovino pressed his lips together and was tempted to lean against the wall again, but after Antonio’s comment, he forced himself more upright. “How’s working for the cardinal?” Lovino asked quickly, before he lost the nerve.

Antonio’s lips hovered over his glass of wine, obviously surprised Lovino asked him a question. He took a sip and replied, “I don’t like him, but he pays well and he likes my work.”

“Well, that’s… ah, good. I guess,” Lovino scratched his neck. Why was he so bad at keeping a conversation? “Why don’t you like him?”

“He’s uptight and pompous and privileged and…”Antonio drifted off, his eyes narrowing on his cup. “There’s something about him I don’t trust.”

Antonio sure was moody when he was drunk.

“Well, he probably doesn’t like me much after my visit,” Lovino commented.

Antonio’s face brightened at that comment and he chuckled happily. Then he spun around and faced Lovino again. “I was surprised to you there actually. Why is it you came?”

“Feliciano dragged me there,” Lovino replied swiftly, and his eyes flickered to Feliciano, busy in an animated conversation. He noticed Gilbert eyeing him and Antonio with that same cautious expression, but he looked away in the same moment.

Antonio put down his wine glass, now empty, and rested his chin on his hand again. “I want you to model for me.”

Lovino’s shoulders tensed, and this time he allowed himself to creep back against the wall. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I told you. I’m an artist. I don’t model.”

“I don’t think those two things are exclusive,” Antonio said. His eyes were so green and bright. Lovino felt cornered by their exploration. “It’s just… as soon as I saw you, I wanted to paint you.”

Lovino’s lips were fighting an amused smile. Antonio was drunk. Now it was obvious. “You sure are a strange artist,” Lovino mused.

Antonio grinned, his expression more confident. “I’m a _great_ artist. Perhaps you just don’t see it yet. But that’s okay, people are slow to accept new things.”

“Maybe,” Lovino laughed. Oh god, maybe he was getting drunk too. How many times had Antonio refilled his glass now?

But he kept drinking along with Antonio and the others, and their table rumbled louder and louder with laughter. Everything was so much easier. The world was spinning. Lovino was talking and he wasn’t afraid to.

At some point Feliciano was dancing on the table, and the whole bar cheered for him. Lovino almost joined him, but thankfully Ludwig pulled Feliciano down before he could regret that choice.

Antonio still stared at Lovino—but Lovino didn’t mind anymore. He didn’t like most people’s stares, but Antonio eyes regarded him differently. It made him feel warm, like he was wanted there, and not a nuisance or a charity case. Lovino had never had real long-lasting friends before - aside from Feliciano - and he secretly wondered if he and Antonio were becoming friends. Or maybe it was just the alcohol talking.

Antonio was telling him something, but Lovino could feel his eyes growing heavy again. He tried to listen—it was something about art again.

Then Gilbert was suddenly between them slapping a hand to Antonio’s shoulder. Lovino jolted upright and blinked between the both of them.

“We gotta problem,” Gilbert said, and he gestured to Feliciano, sick at the edge of the bench. Ludwig was hovering near him with a glass of water, looking helpless.

“Damn it,” Lovino sighed, and he awkwardly untangled himself from the table. As soon as he stood, he felt the world tilt, but he steadied himself against the wall and slowly things adjusted.

Before Antonio or Gilbert could notice, Lovino walked carefully to Feliciano and knelt down. “Are you okay?” he asked. The moment it left his lips he knew it was a dumb question. Feliciano only groaned: his face positively green. Lovino patted his arm. “Do you think you can walk home?”

“I’ll help him,” Ludwig offered. Lovino was tempted to decline, but if he was having trouble walking on his own he wasn’t sure if he could manage to drag Feliciano back with him.

“Okay,” Lovino nodded. “I’ll lead the way.” He stood up slowly, trying to act as casual as possible. Ludwig followed him, swinging one of Feliciano’s arms over his shoulder and lifting him to his feet.

Lovino took careful steps out of the bar. He heard Ludwig’s heavier footsteps behind him, and he looked back curiously to see where Antonio and Gilbert were. He spotted them a few feet behind wrapped up in a serious conversation. Lovino couldn’t hear any of it, but Antonio was keeping his head down and muttering while Gilbert whispered furiously in his ear.

Distracted, Lovino tripped on a loose cobblestone and lost his balance. He stumbled, but was proud that he didn’t fall. Lovino kept walking, and tried to pretend it was nothing, but Antonio trotted to his side anyway.

“You never answered me before,” Antonio said. His grin was smaller now, and Lovino idly wondered what he and Gilbert talked about.

“Uh,” Lovino searched his memories, but couldn’t quite find it. “What was the question?”

Antonio laughed and gave Lovino’s face a closer look. If he realized how drunk Lovino was, he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he replied, “I asked if I could see your artwork sometime.”

“Oh,” Lovino’s brain adjusted to his surroundings and realized they’d already passed his house. “Damn it, our place is back here,” he grumbled, feeling his cheeks grow hot. He took back everything he said about having a good time with alcohol. Now he felt like a fool.

They arrived at the doorstep of the Vargas’s little yellow house, and Lovino hunted his pocket for the key. After opening the door he gestured for Ludwig to go inside. “Feliciano’s room is on the bottom floor, the second door to the right.”

Ludwig followed his instructions, pulling a sleepy and sick Feliciano with him.

Lovino sighed and leaned his head against the doorframe. He could fall asleep right here. He really could…

Antonio’s chuckle rushed through his ears and his eyes fluttered open again. Antonio was leaning on the other side, watching Lovino with a spirited smile. “You know Lovino,” he said wistfully. “You’re so good at pretending to be an adult, I forgot you weren’t one for a moment.” He sighed, “just for a moment.”

Lovino rolled his eyes and yawned. “I will be soon, don’t you worry. Probably a better one than you are.”

Antonio’s smile was lopsided. “That’s not a very high standard.”

Ludwig awkwardly walked outside saying he put Feliciano to bed. Lovino nodded and slowly tread inside, holding the door.

“You sure you can make it to your room?” Antonio jeered lightly.

“The second floor isn’t that far,” Lovino yawned again. “See ya,” he half-waved.

Ludwig and Gilbert waved to him, but Antonio still lingered on the doorstep, resting his hands over the doorframe like a cat.

“If you keep yawning like that, I’m going to fall asleep here too,” he purred, and closed his eyes.

But Gilbert was there before Lovino could even react, grabbing Antonio by the collar of his shirt and yanking him almost violently away from the house. The three of them scrambled together on the street like little shadowed beetles. What an odd bunch.

Lovino closed the door. But before he was too far away, he heard Antonio boisterously yell, “good night Lovino!”

Lovino gave a short laugh and shuffled to Feliciano’s room, too tired to go upstairs now. He fell asleep at the foot of Feliciano’s bed, listening to the sound of him breathing.

It was the first time in a while Lovino fell asleep with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please comment! : )


	3. Giornata

_Giornata:_ _an Italian art term meaning "a day's work." It is used in buon fresco murals and describes how much painting can be done in a single day of painting. Knowing how much can be painted in a day is crucial in the buon fresco technique, because in this approach a watercolor paint is applied to wet lime plaster which binds the paint into the surface of the plaster when it dries, making for an extremely durable painting. An experienced fresco painter knows how much surface can be painted in a day, and wet plaster is applied to the wall in the right amount needed for each day's work. Generally the plaster is applied in a way that will conform to the outline of a figure, or object, in a painting, so that the daily segments will not show._

 

Rome, Italy

 September, 1595

* * *

 

Something changed over the course of the next few weeks. Almost without warning, Lovino had been pulled away from his recluse lifestyle. Feliciano of course, was the driving force, but at some point it was the Germans too, and more often Antonio.

Lovino didn’t quite understand why Antonio tracked him down again and again. He told Lovino on more than one occasion what a child he was. And Lovino didn’t know when he began to _accept_ Antonio’s drop-ins: he was scared of Antonio at first, and generally thought he was infuriating. But somehow, despite it all the two of them got along.

After Ferragosto, Antonio made a habit of dropping by Lovino’s house after normal hours. Lovino stayed up late and Antonio knew because there would a candle twinkling in his window. Antonio would yell his name (if he was drunk) and throw pebbles (if he was not _as_ drunk) to get Lovino’s attention. At first, Lovino was furiously embarrassed. He’d stomp out the house in his casual clothes, face pink from drawing and find Antonio trying to break a window to get in.

But he managed to tame Antonio’s strange moods and they’d end up talking on the street. Usually Antonio had just fled a brawl and was trying to calm down. Lovino didn’t understand why Antonio fought so much. Sometimes it seemed like it wasn’t just the art world Antonio hated, but the rest of the world too. Lovino just couldn’t comprehend it, and if he tried to ask why, Antonio would just get angrier and look at Lovino with eyes so heated, they were almost desperate.

If they saw each other during the day, it was usually when Lovino was running about Rome, frantically completing errands for his grandfather. His studio was near-ish to Piazza Navona - not near enough to run into Antonio that often - but apparently Antonio liked to take walks or something. Lovino would be ready to pull out his hair in frustration, so fed up with everyone asking him to do such stupid fucking tasks. Antonio would listen to him and always agree, saying, “yes, yes. It’s all stupid. I agree. You’re wasted doing all of these chores.”

Antonio still asked to see Lovino’s art, and eventually Lovino did show him some drawings he made for his apprenticeship. But Antonio took only a cursory glance at them before dropping them on the table.

“I meant your drawings. Not Raphael’s,” he said.

That was when Lovino would lose his temper, babble a string of curses, and push Antonio out of his home. He didn’t know what Antonio wanted sometimes.

But they didn’t always see each other alone. In fact, that became increasingly rarer. Usually, it was together with Gilbert, Ludwig, and/or Feliciano. Feliciano had an odd relationship with Antonio. When Antonio spoke to him it was kinder, more docile, but also a little more childish. It tapped into a softer part of Antonio that Lovino rarely saw. Antonio was always so intense around him.

Ludwig was easy enough to get along with when he kept his distance and stuck to Feliciano. Lovino understood that there was a secret overbearingness in his nature and it set him on edge when he talked to him. But Ludwig also turned into a more complacent person with his younger brother.

Gilbert was the one Lovino had the most trouble pinning down in the end. He was louder than Antonio, more boastful too, and very much liked to make a scene with grand gestures. But his grin could stop on a dime and he would observe Lovino and Antonio with so much scrutiny, Lovino wondered if he did something wrong.

When he caught Gilbert doing this, his reaction of course was to quip, “what the hell are you looking at, bastard?”

Gilbert was never intimidated. His red eyes would flash as they passed over him and Antonio and a grin would reappear. “Apparently nothing,” he’d joke before turning away.

Sometimes it seemed like Gilbert was Antonio’s keeper. He and Ludwig both. Ludwig could physically control Antonio, but Gilbert was the only one he seemed to respect. It was a strange thing to see Antonio obeying the orders of someone else. However, despite all of Gilbert’s odd quirks, he, like Ludwig, had a secret autocratic side to him, and maybe Antonio occasionally needed someone with structure to command his chaos.

Weeks turned into months, and Antonio and Lovino continued to see more of each other. By November, Lovino thought he could safely say that they were friends. He flippantly mentioned the term to Antonio one day and he gave a baffling reaction.

Antonio laughed just as his brows went down. “What else could we be?”

 

* * *

 

 November, 1595

“Hey Lovino?”

“Hm,” Lovino replied nonchalantly. He was twirling his plate of spaghetti, thinking of what studies to make tomorrow. Feliciano had been talking nonstop since they started dinner, and Lovino learned to tune him out eventually.

But Feliciano persevered. “I was talking with Gilbert the other day, and we were wondering something…”

“No need to be cryptic, Feli. Just say it already,” Lovino deadpanned, and reached for his glass of wine.

“Well, we were wondering how was it that you and Antonio are friends?” he asked curiously, tilting his head ever so slightly.

Lovino glanced up, at once annoyed. “What the hell does that mean?”

Feliciano quickly realized his mistake and waved his hands defensively. “No, no! We’re not saying you _shouldn’t_ be friends! I’m so happy you are! And so is Gilbert!”

Lovino had some doubts about the last part.

“But you two are so difficult, you know? And so different,” Feliciano laughed sweetly. “So it’s funny that you manage to be friends.”

If Lovino thought about it… yes, it was a bit odd they were friends. He and Antonio were definitely _difficult_ people, but he wasn’t sure they were that _different_. If Lovino said that Antonio was more emotional than he was, that would certainly be a lie. In fact, Lovino understood _all_ of Antonio’s mood swings, because he had them too: he just wasn’t as honest about them. Antonio was free in the sense that he couldn’t keep anything bottled up. As soon as he felt it he did it, or said it, or fought for it.

Lovino admired it in a way, and he kind of enjoyed being around it. But he didn’t want to be that way. Emotions scared him. _HIS_ emotions scared him. He buried things so down deep just so he wouldn’t have to agonize over them anymore. It was almost too much for his heart to bear.

“I don’t know if we’re that different,” Lovino said softly, still in thought.

Feliciano peered at him curiously, as if it dawned on him too. Then he smiled again, and added, “well, whatever the reason, I’m happy you two are friends. I think he’s good for you. He makes you do things.”

“He does not _make_ me do anything,” Lovino insisted gravely.

“Convinces you?”

“No!”

“Inspires then,” Feliciano settled happily, despite Lovino’s protests. “And I think you’re good for him too. That’s what I said to Gilbert.”

Lovino looked at him expectantly. Truthfully, he didn’t know what Antonio got out of their friendship, if there even _was_ anything. After all, Antonio only approached him because he wanted Lovino to model for him, and Lovino still hadn’t said yes to that.

“If you say I ‘calm him’ or some bullshit like that, I know you’re lying,” Lovino warned.

But Feliciano chuckled easily. “No, I was going to say you ground him. Or focus him, or something. He’s more sound when you’re there with him.”

“Well, I definitely don’t compliment him, if that’s what you’re saying,” Lovino raised his glass of wine and tipped it back.

“You’re being silly now, but that’s okay,” Feliciano smiled and joined him for a glass of wine. “I think you know what I mean, anyway.”

Lovino rolled his eyes. He supposed he did, in a way.

“You should visit him in his studio sometime! Have you seen it yet?” Feliciano asked.

Lovino blinked. “Why would I do that?” He’d never once thought of visiting Antonio in his studio. Maybe it was because his grandfather continued to badmouth him, but he never even considered the possibility of seeing Antonio at work.

“Well, he’s finishing up a new painting for the cardinal, so you might like to see how a patroned artist works. I learned a lot from visiting him.”

“You visited him?” Lovino blurted. “When?”

Feliciano looked startled by Lovino’s reaction. “Why I go there all the time!” he exclaimed gleefully. “He shares the studio with Gilbert and Ludwig, so I often stop there when I have a break.”

“Oh,” Lovino echoed, a bit deflated. He wasn’t jealous, but it made his chest tighten to think of the group he’d grown accustomed to, together without him. Of course, it was his own doing that he didn’t spend more time with them. He basically made them drag him along each time. But he was petty enough to admit that it made him lonely imagining the four of them happy without his company.

Feliciano, sensing his down-turned mood, clapped his hand to the table. “Let’s go tomorrow! We can go during our lunch break!”

Lovino’s lips twisted uncertainly. But after a few moments he nodded.

Feliciano beamed and clinked their glasses. “It’ll be so fun to surprise them,” he winked.

 _As long as they aren’t disappointed,_ Lovino thought to himself.

 

* * *

 

Antonio’s studio wasn’t in Palazzo Madama, but it was very close by. Lovino scratched the collar of his brown shirt anxiously. It worried him to think they were dropping by unexpectedly. With Feliciano maybe this would be okay, but he wasn’t like Feliciano in any way aside from surname.

Feliciano insisted it would be _fun_ , and that Antonio and the Germans’ studio was _so cool._

Lovino wasn’t sure about the latter, or the former really, but he followed Feliciano anyway, because what else was he to do during his lunch break?

Feliciano led him to a small white building just off of Piazza Navona, basically around the block from Palazzo Madama. Lovino observed the outside with avid interest: it was plain, with no flowers on the windowsills or adoration of the doors. He guessed Antonio and the German brothers used it for work and work only.

Apparently the door was always left unlocked, as Feliciano flounced to the doorstep happily and swung the entrance open with ease. Lovino walked inside first, because Feliciano expected him to, but once inside, he depended on Feli to lead the way.

It wasn’t a large space. No tour guide was needed at all. But Lovino still had the inkling he was unwanted (and _knew_ he was unexpected), so he waited until Feliciano entered to then follow his lead. They walked down the hallway, crowded with hanged cloaks, and through the only door to the right. Feliciano opened it happily, breathing a sigh of relief to be there. But Lovino was so tense he was holding breath in.

The space wasn’t abundant. Not as large as grandpa Roma’s studio, that was for sure. But then, Antonio, Gilbert, and Ludwig worked without assistants, so it made sense in the end. Lovino took a broad scope of the room. It was plain in color, with all of the walls painted an off-shade of white. Those wanting to paint the purest color only had the walls of their studio in white.

It was divided in half. To one side was Gilbert and Ludwig, collaborating on a large-scale canvas poised against the left wall. They had a cheap table set to their side, decorated in containers of paints of all colors and brushes set meticulously in order of size. Ludwig was busy with one corner of the painting, and Gilbert crouched near a lower half.

To the the right, was Antonio’s half of the room. His canvas was smaller, but his table was larger. On it was a mess of used palettes, jars of untouched paints, and brushes stuffed in vases. To the side of his room were dozens sketches splayed across the floor. Antonio himself was sitting on a stool, leaning dangerously close to his canvas, with an expression of keen concentration.

“Hello, hello!” Feliciano greeted, alarming only Lovino with his greeting.

Gilbert waved a hand flippantly, and Ludwig waved a brush. Antonio remained painting without so much as acknowledging his presence. Lovino was blushing now, feeling very, _very_ much out of place.

But Feliciano absolutely _delighted_ in making surprises, and he hummed a little tune as he surveyed the room. “I brought a guest with me today,” he sing-songed. No one hesitated. Feliciano continued, quite unperturbed, “Lovino what do you think of their paintings?”

The silence echoed, and Lovino could not even contain his groan.

“For fuck’s sake, Feli. What kind of introduction was that?” he muttered, casting his brother a nasty glare.

Gilbert rotated in his chair to face him, and Ludwig glanced over his shoulder. Only Antonio rose from his chair in fast steps, calling, “Feli! So you managed to drag your brother along! What a surprise!” he laughed, and Lovino crossed his arms, unknowing of what else to do in the situation.

Antonio gave Feliciano a _hug_. Lovino had never seen him be physically affectionate with anyone before. Antonio turned to him, paint smeared on his face, but his expression absolutely _vivacious._ “Have you come to model for me then?”

At least Lovino knew this scenario. He frowned and said, “no.”

Antonio laughed easily. “Should have figured. You don’t like my paintings anyway,” he said, and in manic movements, tucked several of the stray drawings lingering about his space of the studio in piles underneath his table.

Antonio’s face was flushed, but his eyes determined when he looked at Lovino, “come watch me paint then! Perhaps I can change your mind.” He circled around his stool for a moment, a bit lost. “Well, I only have my chair, and there are no others…” he paused staring down at the ground, thinking very seriously. Then his face brightened and he slid his stool across the floor. “Take mine and watch me paint! Go on!”

Lovino caught the stool, an amused smile peaking on his stoic lips. He said nothing and brought the chair near to Antonio’s canvas, and perched himself carefully atop. Antonio was standing at his painting now, but that also seemed to suit him. He was active this way: pacing around the canvas in nervous motions.

Feliciano made a space for himself on the Germans’ side of the studio, Lovino noticed. Not needing a chair, he curled himself against the wall closest to Ludwig, and sat there to watch him paint.

Lovino didn’t hold his attention there for long, because Antonio’s way of painting demanded _all_ of it. He was anxious, turbulent, ecstatic, and terrified. It was as though every emotion possible emoted itself from Antonio as he painted.

Maybe it wasn’t obvious, and perhaps Lovino was looking far too much into it. But he knew Antonio at this point, and he knew the mood swings. It was all true, and in some corner of Lovino’s heart it terrified him to know for a fact that Antonio felt as much as he did. He reacted on those emotions in a different way to be sure, but it was all the same in the end.

Antonio spoke, and it was unclear whether he realized Lovino’s discomfort or not.

“You know,” he said, painting a layer on the saint of dramatic composition. “I always wish I was painting you. No matter what the subject is.”

It sent a peculiar emotion racing through Lovino’s veins: he often felt it near Antonio. But still, he couldn’t recognize what it was.

Lovino could only murmur delicately, away from the others’ ears, “is that so?”

“It is,” Antonio grinned, facing Lovino now. Those bright green eyes gleaned something from Lovino’s core, and he didn’t like it so he turned away. Antonio repeated anyway, “it will always be.”

Lovino couldn’t resist the curiosity. “But why is that? You already said I’m a simple boy, right? From the first time you met me,” Lovino said, pointed out tiredly.

Antonio now stood to his full height, clearly taken aback by Lovino’s comment. He held his brush tightly, then faced the canvas once again. “Perhaps I misspoke,” he said, drifting off with his painting. “When I approached you, I only meant you were _natural,_ like nothing I had - or have - ever seen before.”

“Natural?” Lovino repeated, curious and flustered. “In what way?”

Antonio spied at him over his shoulder, his expression turning a little more pleased, but still cautious. He stood back from the canvas, garnering more paint, and replied, “you are more natural in life than most others are.”

Lovino didn’t understand what that meant: it was something he was unconcerned about in his artwork, but maybe in Antonio (and Feliciano’s) artwork it applied.

He felt flustered, unsure, and embarrassed and decided to look away to Gilbert and Ludwig’s paintings.

“Just because I compliment you, doesn’t mean you’re free to look at other painters,” Antonio jeered, catching Lovino’s attention once again with a smooth call and masculine grin.

Antonio was grabbing more paint with his brush now, and his cheeks were red in artistic ardor.

Lovino clasped his hands together, ignoring the anxious sweat pricking between them. Because… watching Antonio paint was _riveting_.

He could never tell him that. He would _never_ tell him that. But Antonio had a manner, a glorious and elegant way about him that channeled the chaos he felt deep inside - to his bones - in such clear and forceful pictures. When Antonio painted, his face was flexible among so many emotions. When his character was sad, Antonio frowned, even his eyes teared up. And if his character was in ecstasy, as one was right now, he was breathing ecstatically, moving frantically, and his whole body was absolutely aquiver.

Lovino’s eyes were narrowed watching him, but that was only out of concentration, because for once Feliciano was right, he was learning so much by watching Antonio paint.

Antonio felt. He truly, truly felt. The color carried him to another place. Or maybe he let the color carry him, Lovino didn’t know.

“One day,” Antonio murmured, bent over the corner of his canvas, his lips taught. “One day, Lovno. You will model for me. I’m certain of it.”

Lovino would’ve just frowned, but there was hardly a way for Antonio to register that. Instead, he sighed loudly and held his chin in his hand, still watching Antonio.

“We’ll see,” he replied delicately. It was the most promising response he’d given in a while. But he didn’t expect such an animated reaction from Antonio.

Antonio turned to him, eyes alight and observing every part of Lovino. “I know I’ll wear you down one day. Just you wait.”

Lovino rolled his eyes and looked away.

 

* * *

 

December, 1595

Lovino fell asleep at a cafe one Sunday morning while he was dining with Antonio, Feliciano, Gilbert, and Ludwig. He hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before, and the conversation had drifted into duller topics so he felt himself drift away at his corner of the table.

It wasn’t a deep sleep, and he caught a vague word here and there. At some point, someone spoke louder and called his name. Lovino opened his eyes and just briefly, for a moment he thought Antonio was watching him sleep, but as soon his eyes had adjusted Antonio was looking away.

Gilbert was the one talking to him. He waved his hand in front of Lovino’s face to get his attention and Lovino frowned.

“Did you hear me?” Gilbert laughed. “I asked if you’re coming to the festival tonight?”

Lovino shook his head. “What kind of festival are we talking about?” he grumbled, and reached for his glass of water.

“Well, it’s more of a dance really,” Gilbert clarified, red eyes sparkling. “I’m meeting my girl there, haven’t you been listening?”

Girl. That was unusual. The four of them never mentioned romantic interests. Maybe it was something about being artists. It often left no time for that side of life. Lovino knew he never thought of it.

“That’s right, Gilbert! You mentioned her a little while ago,” Feliciano exclaimed excitedly. Ludwig was sighing on the other side. “What’s her name again?”

“Elizaveta,” Gilbert proclaimed proudly. “She’s from the Holy Roman Empire. She’s great. A noblewoman and a poet,” he wagged his brows, “I can’t wait for you to meet her.”

“Ah, this is so exciting! How often do you guys see each other?”

“She hangs about the courts and stops by to see me at Palazzo Madama sometimes,” Gilbert said, as if it was something to brag about. “Anyway, you all should come down. It’s happening in Piazza Navona. There’ll be dancing, good food… I’m just hoping it doesn’t fucking rain.” He glared at the sky sourly. It was certainly winter, and Decembers were so moody in Rome.

“Should a noblewoman really be going to an outdoor festival?” Lovino asked dryly. He didn’t know much about the propriety of the whole thing, but all in all it sounded bizarre. Especially if she was associating herself with a painter.

“She’s a poet before she’s a noblewoman,” Gilbert proclaimed, and his grin was turned more soppy. “And she’s coming to see me after all.”

“What do you say, Lovino?” Feliciano looked at him, eyes bright. “You like dancing after all. It can be fun!”

Antonio peered at him curiously, eyes twinkling. “Ah, that makes sense. I can see you as a dancer.”

Lovino slammed his cup on the table a little too hard. “Yeah, I danced when I was a _kid_. I don’t do it now.”

“Oh, come on! Please, Lovino! I’m going! And there’ll be pretty girls and music! Please!” Feliciano pleaded, clasping his hands together and leaning over the table in feign desperation.

Lovino pursed his lips, deliberating his answer. Feliciano’s eyes were growing wider and wider, Gilbert gave him a waiting look, and Ludwig had already tuned out of the conversation, deciding to eat his bread instead. Somewhere amongst all of the chatter, Antonio had tensed up and was gazing intensely at the table with a tight jaw.

Lovino narrowed his eyes at him. “What is it? Do you not like festivals either?”

If no one else noticed Antonio’s mood darken before, they did now, and suddenly Lovino wasn’t the only one waiting for his reply.

Antonio raised his head, a bit caught off guard, but looked at Lovino with barbed eyes. A grin slowly etched its way across his features, but his brows remain knit. He raised his glass of water, “if there’s alcohol, I’ll be there.”

Lovino ignored the odd pang in his chest and looked at the table. “Well, all right then. Guess we’re going to a festival.”

 

* * *

 

Elizaveta Héderváry was a tall, elegant woman, and widow of an aristocrat. Lovino figured that was why she enjoyed more freedom, and was able to write poetry and romance with Gilbert.

She greeted Lovino at the festival, wearing a long green dress and small cape to protect her from the chilly air. Her hair was made up in a fanciful updo, and when she smiled at Lovino and Feliciano, her eyes glittered like the jewels on her ears. She was so maternal, perhaps that was why Lovino felt so at ease with her upon just meeting her. And it was almost impressive the way she managed Gilbert’s raucous personality with a coquettish smile and secretive taunts.

“Look at Gilbert,” Feliciano gossiped in Lovino’s ear, giggling. “Have you ever seen him like that? He looks at her like she hung the moon.”

He really did. Lovino wanted to make fun of him, because it was comical the way Gilbert rushed around her like a child, begging for her constant attention, and trying to earn her approval. But Lovino couldn’t really make fun of him, because he was more baffled than anything else. He really didn’t understand love, or what it meant. It was such a strange thing to witness.

“Gilbert mentioned to me you work for Roma Vargas, is that right?” Elizaveta asked Lovino, pointedly turning her attention away from Gilbert to tease him.

Lovino face was heated, but he didn’t know why. There was something about Elizaveta that made him feel like he was talking to his _mother_. “Uh, yeah I am. Apprenticing right now though.”

“Ah,” Elizaveta sighed. “I love his work you know. His pictures are so elegant and soft. I wish I could live in them.”

Lovino’s stomach filled with butterflies because it was rare he heard a compliment of his style among the group he hung out with. “Yeah, I agree. They’re very beautiful.” He would have stopped talking except Elizaveta made him feel so comfortable, he added, “we’re actually about to start painting frescoes at Palazzo Farnese next year.”

Elizaveta smiled brightly. “Oh, that’s wonderful. And such a grand project! How long do you think it’ll take?”

“Several years, I expect,” Lovino replied. “But I’ll get to paint too, so it should be more interesting than what I do now… I guess.” He trailed off, a little embarrassed. Gilbert was listening in on their conversation, and Lovino didn’t like being honest in front of him.

Elizaveta’s eyes swept across the piazza, and she laughed quietly to herself. “You know Lovino, the music is about to start, so why don’t you ask someone to dance?”

Lovino frowned and glanced around. “Ask who?”

Gilbert looked like he was about to make a joke, but Elizaveta swiftly cut him off with a kick of her heel.

“What about that girl over there?” Elizaveta said, pointing to a petite blonde, standing with a group of other women. “She’s been looking at you for a while now.”

Lovino raised a brow, still very confused at what Elizaveta was getting at, and scanned the piazza with narrowed eyes. “She’s a stranger though. I don’t know her.”

“So you have nothing to lose,” Elizaveta smiled, and gave Lovino a light push in the direction. “Go on then. Everyone else is about to start dancing.”

Lovino threw another glance over his shoulder, shaking his head at Elizaveta and trying to discern the almost concerned shadow that crossed Gilbert’s face. Then it hit him that Elizaveta was right. Lovino couldn’t remember when he and Feliciano were separated, but he saw him now, joyously talking to another girl on the other side of the piazza. Ludwig was very pointedly sitting the festival out at the restaurant, and Antonio failed to make an appearance at all.

Suddenly feeling very alone, anxious, and increasingly frustrated because dammit he was counting on Antonio to hate this festival as much as he did: Lovino marched over to the blonde girl and asked her to dance. She was from the Spanish Netherlands, the Flemish part, so Lovino took pride in being able to talk to her about the Flemish art he’d heard about as they danced across the cobblestones.

She was sweet really. Women were so much easier to be around. Lovino had always thought so. They were kind, and sensitive, and didn’t trample over Lovino’s feelings like he could take it. At some point, Lovino even found himself _enjoying_ dancing with her and talking with her. It was refreshing, almost relaxing for him.

He danced with her a few times until he noticed the familiar black tempest cross across the piazza. As soon as he saw Antonio, he couldn’t remember why he was dancing in the first place, and made for an awkward departure from his dancing partner. Music still flew through the air as Lovino made a beeline to Antonio, who was standing with Gilbert and Elizaveta.

Lovino was pleased, or actually _relieved_ , to see him, but didn’t know what sort of mood Antonio would be in so he decided to make a joke. “So you finally decided to show up then?” He crossed his arms and bluffed annoyance.

Antonio looked at him with hard eyes, and his smile was cavalier. “I told you I don’t like festivals.”

Lovino’s eyes widened, because he felt like Antonio was mad at him, and his arms dropped to his side.

Elizaveta looked at them rather confused, and only Gilbert had a sixth sense of what was going on.

“Why don’t we sit down and join Ludwig for something to eat?” he suggested happily. A wide and easy grin on his face. “He’s probably regretting he came in the first place.”

Elizaveta blinked at him, but seemed to understand Gilbert was managing something and agreed swiftly, “that sounds like a lovely idea. Come on Lovino.” She locked arms with Lovino and led him to the table.

Sitting down altogether, Antonio’s mood appeared to lighten a bit, so Lovino tried talking to him again.

“You’re not going to dance at all?” Lovino asked awkwardly.

Antonio looked at him, his expression softening for a moment. “There’s no one I can dance with,” he said.

Lovino raised a brow, not understanding his answer. Still trying to appease him, Lovino tried for another joke, “well I’d dance with you, but it’d probably look weird with two people leading.”

The sudden melody of Antonio’s laughter made Lovino’s heart skip a beat. Antonio looked at Lovino closely, _curiously_ , with eyes very happy. “Yes, I’m sure that’d be the only problem.”

For whatever reason, Lovino felt flustered by the conversation. He didn’t understand what Antonio was insinuating, but it made his skin flush and he quickly dropped the subject.

Things turned back to normal after some time. They drank wine, and Elizaveta guided the conversation to something more pleasant. Feliciano eventually fluttered back to the table, giggling and further brightening the table. With six people, the carafes were drained rapidly, and they took turns fetching more. Eventually, it was Lovino’s turn, and he shuffled in the restaurant feeling a little warmer, and ordered two more.

While he was waiting inside he heard a table yelling in the corner. It was English again, Lovino was sure of it, and he peered around to see who was sitting there. His breath hitched when he realized it was the same group of thick-browed men from a few months ago, whom Antonio brawled with. The loudest, and maybe the leader of the group, was yelling at them and trying to free himself from their grip to go outside. Lovino alternated his glance to the window, wondering…

And he was right. Their table was directly in view from the window, so the Englishman must see Antonio sitting there. His breath began to quicken, and his palms pricked with sweat. He wasn’t sure what to do. Certainly Antonio could handle fights, as he’d been in enough of them. But he’d been drinking and last time the Englishmen managed to cut his arm, and Lovino was panicking now because the entire English _troop_ was marching to the door.

A gut instinct forced Lovino to step in front of them, looking very much like a deer in front of a hunter. He didn’t even know if these bastards spoke Italian, dammit!

“Um,” he coughed, as the blond leader narrowed his eyes at him. “What seems to be the problem?” He was praying, _praying_ _to God_ , they spoke Italian.

And if you were very broad with the language Italian, Lovino supposed you could consider their reply something along those lines. It was broken and heavily accented, but the leader said, “let me through. There’s someone I need to _talk_ to.” He eyed the table where Antonio sat and his expression was savage.

Lovino glanced to his waist and spotted a dagger swinging by the side of his cape.

Lovino had never been in a fight before. Not a physical one. He’d always managed to use his words to cut deep enough before he’d run away. But something was different now. Antonio got into so many fights, and Lovino hated that. He also felt like in this situation, he suddenly had the opportunity to protect someone. Maybe prove he wasn’t so much a boy or a child as everyone in his life kept telling him.

The Englishman, tired of Lovino’s silence, shoved past him. But Lovino circled back, and like a wild animal, jumped onto the blond’s back and tackled him to the ground. It was such a rush of commotion. There was the sound of glass breaking, and people yelling. Italian and English was being shouted, and he was pretty sure some of those shouts were his.

“Get off of me you bloody twat!” the Englishman bellowed, and Lovino could tell he was scrambling for his dagger, so he tried to keep his arms pinned. But Lovino wasn’t as strong as he thought he was, and unfortunately it was also four against one.

“Shut up! You are not going outside, dammit!” Lovino was yelling. He almost wanted to laugh, because he’d never been in a situation like this and the adrenaline pulsing through his veins was incredible. “You need to calm down!”

“What?! Me? You’re the one who needs to calm down!” the Englishman shouted. “Chaps! Get him off of me already!” He must have been addressing his friends, because Lovino was suddenly peeled off of the blond as easily as a piece of tissue.

Then Lovino felt like he was flying, but realized very soon he was actually being thrown, and it hit him when he finally slammed against the ground, feeling the air knocked out of his lungs. He wanted to curse, but it came out like a wheeze. This was _not_ going to plan.

Not going to plan was an understatement, as Lovino felt himself lifted off the ground once more to be thrown onto a table now. He was dizzy and seeing stars, but still grasped that he was now being pinned down by the Englishmen - all of them _furiously_ drunk - and their blond leader leaned over him with a dagger. It sparkled in front of Lovino’s eyes, and in his daze, it looked like there were seven of them.

“What the hell is going on here?!”

That was Gilbert’s shout, and Lovino was a tiny bit relieved to hear it. There was more commotion, and the Englishmen returned to speaking English again, so Lovino didn’t understand them. He did hear Antonio start yelling, and was pretty confident that it was him that pulled the dagger away from Lovino’s face.

Glass was breaking, people kept shouting, but damn Lovino’s head hurt and he wished people could fight a little more quietly. He groaned and lifted his arm to head. He still couldn’t see straight, but he was pretty sure all of the hands in front of him were stained red. “Fuck,” he sighed, and tried to sit up.

“ _Wait!—_ Antonio, grab him before he falls!” Gilbert ordered roughly. There was still some racket in the background, but it was a bit quieter than before.

Lovino was still trying to sit up, and it was taking fucking _ages_. When he finally managed to do so, Antonio was there sweeping him up over his shoulder like a sack of flour. “Hey, _hey!”_ Lovino complained. “Put me down!”

Antonio acted as though he didn’t even hear him, and was instead talking to Gilbert and Ludwig in brisk sentences. “It’s too crowded here. We need to leave before the police comes. I’ll take Lovino, and you get Feliciano.”

Then they were outside, and Antonio paused very briefly to pull Lovino down from his shoulder. Lovino only saw his face for a moment, but it scared him half to death how absolutely _livid_ it was. Without any of Lovino’s help, Antonio managed to swing Lovino around to his back and pick him up by his knees, and resumed their escape from the festival.

Whether Gilbert and Ludwig were following, Lovino didn’t know. He wondered what happened to the Englishmen too. They kept jogging down the cobblestones, winding the streets, and Lovino’s breath slowly came easier. He’d never been this close to Antonio before, but it was surprisingly nice.

“You’re not falling asleep, are you?” Antonio demanded, voice strained, and still angry. He was trying to bite it down, but not too well. “You hit your head pretty hard, so I’m not letting you sleep anytime soon.”

“Just _shut up_ ,” Lovino mumbled, taking a deep sigh.

“Dammit,” Antonio muttered loudly, and suddenly they stopped and Lovino was carefully dropped from Antonio’s back and propped against the wall. Lovino’s eyes lazily wandered around and he pondered where they were. Antonio snapped his fingers in front of Lovino’s face. “Hey, look at me,” he ordered, and Lovino did. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Lovino tried to focus his eyes on Antonio’s hand and carefully counted, taking several seconds. “Um,” he said slowly. “Four?”

Antonio’s sighed in relief, and Lovino slowly realized Antonio’s other hand was holding his face. His grip was so tight, it almost hurt, but Lovino made no comment on it.

“I can see why you get into fights all the time. That was pretty fun,” Lovino laughed weakly.

Antonio didn’t laugh along however. His head shot up and he looked at Lovino with eyes as hard as emeralds, and dark curly hair matted to his head in sweat. “Are you joking?” he demanded gravely, his hands shaking slightly. “That was the most terrifyin--I mean why would you even think to do that? God, I was so angry I thought I was going to _actually_ kill someone this time,” his lips were moving rapidly, and Lovino was having a harder time keeping up with what he was saying.

“Did you?” Lovino asked curiously, feeling Antonio’s other hand slide gently over the back of his head. It didn’t hurt, but Lovino couldn’t help but let out a hiss.

Antonio’s palm was stained red, and his lips pulled together in a tight line. “No,” he said tersely. “But I wish I did.” He looked at Lovino again, green eyes on fire, and skin as flushed as Lovino’s. Then in an unexpected moment, Antonio grabbed Lovino and pulled him to his chest. He hugged him so tightly, and his arms held Lovino so securely, for a moment Lovino didn’t know whether he could breathe.  

Lovino wasn’t sure he ever felt as safe as this. Not even with his grandfather.

And Antonio was so warm. So much warmer than the December air. He was like the sun. Burning Lovino’s skin through his thick clothing and callously holding him there, preventing him from any escape.

“Never fight for me, Lovino. Never again.”

Lovino’s heart skipped a beat, because of course he should have realized Antonio would know the reason.

“I was just trying to help.”

“I don’t care,” Antonio said, louder and right near Lovino’s ear. “Don’t help me then. I don’t deserve it, and I don’t want it.”

Lovino’s heart hurt now, but he didn’t know if it was frustration or sadness. “But you’re my friend,” he complained, knowing full well how childish this sounded. “I mean I figure you’d do that for me, so I just thought I should help!”

Antonio released him swiftly, but held onto Lovino’s shoulders. “But when you do things like this it hurts me, don’t you understand?” his voice was angry, but also desperate.

“What? You mean like physically? Were you injured?” Lovino asked hastily, glancing at Antonio’s body.

Then Antonio’s fist hit the wall and he shouted, “No!” Lovino’s heart stopped when Antonio leaned closer. “Not physically. I don’t care about that. _I mean it hurts my—_ ”

But he was interrupted by familiar voices.

“Lovino!” Feliciano shouted, his footsteps nearing.

Antonio shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and carefully stepped away.

Lovino, likewise, released a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Feliciano jogged up to them, Gilbert and Ludwig close behind, and Lovino really wished he could be alone right now because his head was pounding and he was so damn confused.

“Lovino, are you okay?” Feliciano asked worriedly, his soft hands holding Lovino upright.

Lovino nodded quietly. Gilbert strolled up to Antonio, who was standing very still on the other side of the street. Gilbert tried talking to him, but Antonio didn’t say a word before he suddenly turned on his heel and marched away, blending into the night the further he went.

Gilbert seemed torn on what to do, but after a moment of deliberation, walked up to Lovino. In the nighttime, his red eyes were even eerier. He looked like a pale crow. “Lovino, you really shouldn’t do that to him,” he said slowly, as if struggling to choose the right words.

Lovino’s face was hot and his eyes stung. “But I was doing it _for_ him! Why doesn’t anyone understand?”

Gilbert sighed and looked up for a moment. He opened his mouth to speak once, then twice, and finally the third time he said, “Antonio can handle his fights, so just take care of yourself, okay?” Even now, he managed a grin, if a little small, and waved to Lovino and Feliciano as he walked away.

Lovino didn’t cry when he left. He didn’t cry when Ludwig walked him and Feliciano home. He didn’t even cry when they bandaged him up.

He only let himself cry once he was trapped under his blanket and pillow, safe in his room.

This was why he didn’t want to socialize. This was why he wanted to be a lonely artist. Because the more he got to know it, the more it _hurt._

He was so damn confused. _What did he do wrong?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Expect an update very soon after this one! Please leave a comment :)


	4. Chiaroscuro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To reiterate real quick--this is the late 1500s/early 1600s, so the violence I talk about, in all instances, was pretty commonplace. I'm not trying to dramatize anything. It was just part of life. 
> 
> Just a quick reminder! (Because the violence theme is current throughout the story.)

_Three years later..._

 

* * *

 

 _Chiaroscuro:_ _is an_ _oil painting_ _technique developed during the Renaissance that uses strong tonal_ _contrasts_ _between light and dark to model three-dimensional forms, often to dramatic effect._

 

Rome, Italy

May, 1598

 

* * *

 

Lovino didn’t dare wish for too much from his life. He could draw, and draw well. He learnt painting from one of the greatest painters in Rome. And finally, _finally_ at nineteen he was making a living from painting too.

But today, as he was hoisted yards above the floor by scaffolding, tilting his head to the grand barrel-vaulted ceiling of Palazzo Farnese and nose to nose with a Roman god he was painting, Lovino thought  _this_ was the greatest thing God could ever give him. He was far away from everything on the ground, on the streets of Rome, outside. Untouchable and blessed with the magic of being able to create with his own touch.

He didn’t need anything else. He couldn’t ask anything more.

All of his life, this was what he wanted, and what he worked towards. Nothing else could possibly surmount the experience of floating so close to the world you are creating.

Lovino didn’t know whether he believed in an afterlife, and often times questioned his own faith in God. But he was sure, he was absolutely positive that painting this fresco right now, while Rome stormed outside, was the closest he would ever be to reaching heaven.

 

* * *

 

When it rained in Rome, it rained for days. Antonio wondered if it was really May, because time passed so swiftly these days. But when the rain touched his shoulder and it felt refreshing compared to the muggy air he realized that this sort of rain could only happen in May.

It didn’t stop Antonio from his wandering nightly adventures, but it did slow him down. He’d been staring at his canvas for perhaps a half an hour now, tilted on the edge of his stool, but not making any move for his paintbrush. His brain was working terribly slow.

So slow, when Gilbert charged into the studio in fast, squeaking, wet steps, Antonio almost tipped over in his chair in surprise.

Gilbert didn’t even bother to hang his cloak before rushing into the open room, eyes enormous, yelling, “WHAT THE FUCK GUYS I WAS ALMOST HIT BY LIGHTNING!”

“Jesus Christ, Gilbert,” Antonio grabbed his chest, suddenly panting. “You almost gave me a heart-attack.”

“You?!” Gilbert jumped with adrenaline. “How do you I think I feel? My hair was literally standing _on end!_ I’m lucky to be alive! What the hell?” he whipped off his cloak in a frenzy, throwing it against an empty space in the wall.

Ludwig gave Gilbert a cursory glance over his shoulder and sighed. “Stop being so dramatic. I’m sure it wasn’t that close to you.”

“How can you not believe me when I’m telling you the truth? I saw my life flash before my eyes. Memories in Germany, marrying Elizaveta. Shit—I could’ve really died today, you know guys?” Gilbert was laughing now. “Boy, Elizaveta would have been pissed. To marry a second husband and he dies on you the next year, that’s so lame.”

“I’m sure she would’ve moved on,” Ludwig quipped, offering no sympathy.

“She would’ve written a great poem though, I’m sure of it!” Gilbert continued, ignoring Ludwig. “I wonder what she would’ve written about me. Man, now I have to know…” Gilbert trailed off, curious and enamored with the thought of his own legacy.

Antonio normally would have chimed in by now, but he was feeling a little tired and under the weather.

“You doing all right over there, Toni?” Gilbert asked, his poise returning in a flash.

Antonio stood up to look around his table. Maybe he just needed a different brush, or some new paint. “Yeah,” he gave a belated reply to Gilbert. “I’m just looking for something.”

Gilbert stole his stool and hummed a tune. “If it’s your porn stash you’re looking for, I moved it over to the corner.”

“Ha, ha. Very funny,” Antonio smiled, but did not laugh. They were just drawings, and not at all sexual, but Gilbert knew why he drew them and was the only one who’d ever seen them. Ludwig, however, was very much in the dark, and Antonio was trying to keep it that way. He snuck a glance at him, but Ludwig was completely absorbed in work and paid them no mind.

“How’s the cold doing?” Gilbert asked, drawing Antonio’s attention again.

Antonio scoffed dismissively. “It’s fine. I think I’m getting better.” A lie. A partial one anyway. He wasn’t coughing anymore, but he was pretty sure he had a fever now. Maybe that was why he felt so eerily still.

“I can tell,” Gilbert jeered. “Seems like you’ve been painting nonstop since I’ve been gone.”

Antonio turned to his painting, realizing how much of a waste his days been, and rubbed his hand across his face. “Dammit,” he muttered. “This thing has to be done by the end of the month.”

Gilbert rose from the stool to pat his friend of the back. “It’s okay! There’s still plenty of time. Your cold might go away faster if you just lay easy for a few days.

“Lay easy,” Antonio repeated dryly. There was hardly time for that. He wasn’t sure if he even knew how to lay easy. What would he even do?

“Yeah, lay easy. You know, like the rest of the world does?” Gilbert said merrily and crossed his arms with more confidence. “Maybe we can track down the Italians and have them teach us how to do nothing.”

Antonio laughed, and his chest relaxed at the thought. He hadn’t seen Lovino in a month now, which tended to turn Antonio’s mood sour. It wasn’t intentional, but things kept changing and in a way Antonio yearned for the days when Lovino was younger and freer. If at least so he could see Lovino’s face more often.

Now, Lovino worked professionally and everyday. Antonio was flooded with more and more commissions and was drowning in incomplete work. Sometimes, he still took chances and walked by Lovino’s house late at night, hoping to see a twinkle in the second story window. But it was always dark these days. Antonio figured Lovino must be slaving away as hard as he was.

“I’m pretty sure Lovino has painted himself into the ceiling at this point. Not sure if I’ll ever find him again,” he joked casually, but the depression in his voice was hard to mask. Maybe this was why he was sick. Without Lovino there to inspire him, to awaken him, he was losing steam.

“Ah, well I have it in good confidence that he is still around,” Gilbert countered, with a wink. “And coming to Piazza Navona tonight for dinner. Feliciano is dragging him away from Farnese after his work today to give him a break. He suggested we join.”

A light stirred in Antonio’s eyes, and for the first time that day he felt alive. Then as quickly as he felt the sun, clouds shadowed. Cautiously, he asked, “is their grandfather going to be there?”

Gilbert hesitated. “I’m not sure, actually. Feliciano never said.”

Antonio turned to his painting in silent rumination. Even after all this time, Lovino’s grandfather was someone he couldn’t exactly get close to. Not that he cared to befriend him really. But their rivalry did get in the way when he tried to meet up with Lovino. Of course, by now Roma knew that he and Lovino were friends. That much was hard to avoid.

Antonio asked Lovino about it occasionally, wondering if it was ever a problem between them, and Lovino always replied in the same stubborn way:

_“You think I give a damn what he thinks?” he’d say, with a mocking smile on his lips._

Antonio didn’t know too much about family. His own died several years ago and he’d been on his own for longer than he could remember. But he saw how close the Vargas family worked together, and he figured Lovino couldn’t be telling the whole truth: even if he thought so himself.

“You still wanna go?” Gilbert pressed, taking a more concerned interest.

Antonio sighed and stood up a little taller. He didn’t want to stir trouble in their family, but at the same time, it was nearly impossible for him to miss an opportunity to see Lovino.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Antonio grinned recklessly. He may be tired, sick, and horribly overworked, but tonight he’d see Lovino again, and that was all he wanted right now. When his art couldn’t fulfill him, he knew Lovino would. Always.

 

* * *

 

Three years into their friendship and Antonio still felt as though Gilbert knew him better than anyone else. Antonio wasn’t hard to read, but he was hard to get to know, and almost from the getgo Antonio allowed Gilbert to get close to him, because there was something honest and rigid about him that Antonio liked. That Antonio needed.

But there were times when Gilbert’s clairvoyance turned annoying and Antonio wished he could see less of things. Maybe it wasn’t even a sixth sense, maybe it was just the fact Gilbert was so _thorough_. When they began sharing a studio, Gilbert and Ludwig fanatically began organizing the space of their own accord, dividing paints, brushes, and the space to meticulous calculation. It was then that Gilbert discovered Antonio’s “porn stash” as he called it, strewn under the floor of his table haphazardly.

When Antonio couldn’t paint, he drew. And when Gilbert stumbled upon them, almost all of the papers were filled with rough and fast sketches of the boy he met one day. Lovino.

Gilbert asked him about it, and asked him who the person was. He was never very tactful in his investigations. But at the time, Antonio had no idea _who_ Lovino was, so there was no reason for Gilbert to push further.

But then Gilbert found Lovino, and then Antonio knew his name, and suddenly he was friends with the person he never wanted to be friends with.

For all his brash manner and egotistical talk, Gilbert was quick to grasp the situation Antonio had caught himself up in, and was insistent that Antonio keep his distance, because Lovino was just a child. Sixteen. And what Antonio wanted from him was dangerous for both of them. Gilbert never criticized Antonio for the way he was, but it was hard for a personality as invasive as Gilbert’s to stand by idly when Antonio struggled more and more staying away from a person who was by all means _in the dark_ about what Antonio wanted.

But as time passed, and Lovino grew older, Gilbert’s control eased somewhat. He didn’t interfere, and in his own way, tried to help Antonio. Because he knew Antonio’s feelings wouldn’t just go away, and it didn’t seem like Lovino wanted Antonio to go away either.

So as the rain continued to fall outside, the studio slowly darkened to candlelight. Antonio had given up on painting for the day and alternated between drawing and sitting against the wall, watching Gilbert and Ludwig paint instead. He must have dozed off at some point, because when he reopened his eyes Gilbert and Ludwig were cleaning up and caught in the middle of another squabble.

“Your side is looking too heavy,” Ludwig criticized as he wiped his brush clean. “You’re straying from the draft.”

Gilbert tensed indignantly, but still smiled. “I think you’re looking at the wrong side, buddy. Look at your trees! They’re so faint I can barely see them. You gotta make more of a punch with your paint.”

“I am staying loyal to the draft we promised the cardinal,” Ludwig replied gravely. “You should do the same.”

Gilbert rolled his eyes. “As if that prick knows what he wants. If we paint something awesome enough, you know he’ll take it.”

Ludwig appeared tired of the argument. They must have been talking for a while. “It’s already getting late. Perhaps we should walk on over.” He left his table completely neat and tidy, and retrieved his cloak from the hallway.

Antonio got up slowly, yawning from his nap. He didn’t feel much better. Perhaps worse. But he was going anyway, because he had to.

“Here you go,” Gilbert said, as he tossed Antonio’s black cloak and hat into his hands. Gilbert’s red eyes passed over him, questioningly. “You sure you want to come? If you’d rather sleep today, I’m sure we can meet up with them again sometime soon.”

Antonio pressed his lips together and searched for energy he didn’t know if he had. But somewhere deep in his heart he found a spark, and with newfound dramatic flair, he whipped on his cloak, put on his hat and gave Gilbert a dashing grin. “As if I’ll take that chance,” he laughed and plowed through the studio. Ludwig was already waiting at the doorstep, watching the rain fall.

Gilbert followed, chuckling, “you’re a stubborn bastard, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told,” Antonio replied, checking quickly he had his dagger on him. Always in case.

“At least the restaurant isn’t too far,” Ludwig sighed. He always sighed. “If we run there maybe we won’t get too wet.”

“Sounds like a plan!” Gilbert hollered, first to flee out the door. “Last one out locks up!”

Antonio swiftly followed Gilbert’s lead, leaving Ludwig muttering and groaning about being the only adult at work or something. Puddles splashed underneath their boots, and Antonio was thankful the brim of his cap at least let him see where he was going. They turned around in a circle before Gilbert finally remembered where they were supposed to go, and as soon as they landed underneath the awning of the restaurant, panting and drenched, the rain began to lighten to a drizzle.

“Oh, you gotta be fucking kidding me,” Gilbert complained. “Every time, god dammit. Every time.”

Antonio laughed but had to hold his chest for a while to catch his breath. Ludwig eventually showed up, much less wet, but far more annoyed.

The restaurant was relatively busy for a rainy weekday evening. Antonio, Gilbert, and Ludwig stumbled in like wet dogs, and the employees gave them looks they were all too accustomed to, because no matter where they went, they managed to make a scene. Once inside, Antonio felt his heart speed, his skin flush more than before, and his eyes sharpen in search of Lovino.

And once he saw him, he felt so _full._

It may have been a month, but Antonio had memorized Lovino’s profile so long ago, no matter how much time passed between them, or how dark the room may be, he’d find him. He was sitting in the back of the restaurant, leaning against the wall and propping his legs on the empty bench beside him. It was like Antonio’s body moved of its own accord, further and further in the restaurant, closer and closer to where he had to be.

Lovino hadn’t noticed him yet, he was talking with a small smile on his face. Antonio didn’t see the statuesque presence of his grandfather, but instead just the lithe body of Feliciano, waving his hands animatedly on the other side of the bench. So Antonio didn’t even hesitate striding to Lovino’s side, savoring the wide brown eyes (because he _loved_ surprising him), and dropping beside him in a grand flourish.

Lovino raised a brow, and Antonio could tell he was amused. But he played it off, commenting in his low, dry voice, “where the hell have you been?”

Oh, Lovino was in _such_ a good mood. After he started painting professionally, Antonio noticed a difference in his expression. At the end of a long day of painting, usually frescoes because that was what Lovino preferred, Lovino’s face was so much softer, his skin warmer, and his expression of such alluring _elation_.

“Why I’ve been in my studio noon and night. Where else would I be?” Antonio teased, resting his chin in his hand, drinking Lovino in. He looked so much older. Every damn time. His shoulders broader and his arms stronger, and his height closer to Antonio’s. But his eyes stayed the same: curious and so easily surprised.

Lovino looked away, sharing a look with Feliciano. “Feliciano and I were thinking maybe you’d fled town. Maybe you finally pissed off the wrong person.”

“We were kind of worried, you know! It’s been so long since we’ve seen you!” Feliciano chimed happily, ignoring Lovino’s visible protest at the word _worried_. Antonio laughed all the same, and Gilbert and Ludwig finally joined their table, beers in hand.

“My life is far less dramatic these days, I’m afraid. The only fights I have are with Ludwig over paint.”

“Oh, wow Ludwig!” Feliciano giggled. “I didn’t realize you were in charge of Antonio at the studio.”

Antonio watched in shock as Ludwig’s stony, stern face actually _blushed_ at that comment. “Ah, no I’m not really. It’s just a matter of rationing and making sure we’re using only what we must,” he defended rapidly.

Gilbert was as surprised as Antonio was, but he just laughed, because Gilbert enjoyed nothing more than seeing his brother embarrassed.

Lovino had grown bored and quiet of the conversation, and Antonio watched him chip at the wood of the table, deep in thought.

“How is the fresco going?” Antonio asked, leaning closer.

Lovino glanced up, dark hair slightly mussed across his forehead. “Well,” he replied casually, purposefully nonchalant. Lovino didn’t like expressing interest for some reason.

But Antonio knew that meant _very well_. “Perhaps I should stop by sometime and watch you at work.”

“Why?” Lovino asked, eyes narrowed and inquisitive.

Antonio wanted to laugh, because how could Lovino not know? But he simple curled his lips and said, “because I want to.”

Lovino looked away, a mischievous smile slowly appearing. “Better not let grandpa see you. He’ll think you’re there to loosen the bolts on the scaffolding while I paint.”

Antonio blinked, and his veins burned with an uncertain anger. Because although Lovino said it only to tease him, it must have been true, and it enraged Antonio that anyone could even dare to think he’d hurt Lovino.

“Maybe not then,” Antonio drawled, his voice darker.

Lovino looked at him quietly, but before he could reply, they were requested to order their food. Antonio ordered something simple, not feeling very hungry, and just water to drink.

“Are you feeling okay?” Lovino asked suddenly, swiftly, because that was how he asked any question that made him uncomfortable.

Antonio turned to him, fast with a grin. “Never been better! Why do you ask?”

Lovino leaned closer, his warm brown eyes peering closely at Antonio’s face. His lips parted and Antonio was transfixed. Then he pulled away and crossed his arms. “You’re sick,” he declared, and made a gesture in front of his face. “You’re eyes are totally glazed. I knew there was something off. And I can’t remember a time when you turned down wine.”

Antonio’s back tensed, because he did not want Lovino to ever look at him with pity. “I am not sick,” he declared stubbornly.

“You are,” Lovino said with more authority. He uncrossed his arms and stretched his hand closer. “I’ll prove it to you. Let me feel your forehead. Come on.”

Antonio batted his hand away, growing more defensive, but couldn’t help but smile now. “I am not sick, Lovino. Trust me.”

“I don’t.” Lovino fought through Antonio’s protests, and now Antonio was laughing because Lovino was so close and so stubborn, and Antonio could feel his warmth and smell the faint hint of plaster on his skin. “Why are you being such a bastard? Just let me check! God, you’re as bad as Feli!”

Antonio managed to grab both of Lovino’s wrists, because he was still stronger and faster than Lovino. “Ah, ah,” he tutted. “I win, so you best give up.”

After a few tense seconds, Lovino snatched his hands away, face flushed. “Asshole,” he muttered, and reached for his glass of wine.

Antonio chuckled and caught Gilbert’s watchful gaze, saying silently, _be careful._

So he quieted, remembering the public space, but thankfully their food arrived moments later so he was able to focus his attention on poking his risotto with a fork. And although he chose the plainest dish, he still wasn’t so sure he could keep any of it down, and resigned to drinking water and pretending he was more well than he actually was.

But the restaurant bustled now, with more bodies coming in than going out, and Feliciano talking feverishly with Gilbert about Cesari, or painting, or dancing, Antonio stopped listening after a while. He just held his forehead and tried not to fall asleep.

Then Lovino, who always finished his meal first, drained his third glass of wine and slammed it on the table. Antonio propped himself up to look at him, but Lovino was already rising from the table, grabbing his jacket. “I’m going,” he said to the table.

“What? Lovino, why so soon?” Feliciano demanded a bit sadly.

“I’m tired and I have a lot of painting to do tomorrow. Grandpa wants me there earlier than usual,” he replied simply and walked around the table to yank the cloth on Antonio’s shoulder. “You coming or not?”

Antonio glanced at him carefully, debating the motive in Lovino’s eyes. But he was too tired, and too desperate for time with Lovino to question it for long. So Antonio slapped a smile on his face and got up too. “So you have missed me after all! Don’t worry, I shall escort you home like a servant.”

Lovino rolled his eyes and gave a small wave to the rest of the table. Antonio did the same, and together they strolled into the cool air of the night. It wasn’t raining anymore, but sparse clouds still covered the shine of the stars.

“You’re such an idiot,” Lovino mumbled after a while.

Antonio smirked. “For what reason this time?”

Lovino stomped in a puddle. “You’re always like _‘oh, I’m so great. I’m so cool. Watch this, watch this!’”_ he mocked, and tried to imitate Antonio’s voice. “But even when you’re obviously sick,” he waved a hand in front of Antonio. “You still won’t let up. Everyone could tell you were about to pass out the table, you know. I wasn’t the only one.”

Antonio hummed. He wasn’t so sure about that.

“ _I wasn’t_ ,” Lovino repeated defensively. Then he sighed, cheeks red, and stared at the ground. “Anyway, I’m walking you home and you’re going to go to bed, all right.”

“Whatever you say,” Antonio jeered, eyes twinkling at Lovino’s concern. “But I’m not at all tired, so you may have to tell me a bedtime story if you want me to fall asleep.”

“Uh-huh. Right,” Lovino muttered, not taking Antonio seriously. They made fast work of the walk, and soon were walking along the walls of Palazzo Madama, where the cardinal, Ludwig, and Antonio lived. (Gilbert had since moved out and moved in with Elizaveta.) Lovino stopped in front of the main entrance, and waved his hand to the door. “Here you go. You’re welcome. Now get some goddamn sleep you lunatic.” Lovino turned on his heel, ready to storm off, but on instinct, Antonio caught his hand, and for a moment Lovino’s eyes matched his and Antonio could have sworn he was sixteen again because he looked at him with so much vulnerability. Anytime Antonio touched him he looked like that.

“I wasn’t joking you know,” Antonio said smoothly, reluctantly letting him go. “I came tonight because I wanted to talk to you, and we haven’t really had a chance. Can’t we sit outside for a while?”

Lovino’s eyes were wide and conflicted. Slowly he lowered his brows and gave Antonio a grave look. “But you’re sick,” he protested.

Antonio smiled and gave him a wink. “Just for a little while I promise.”

Warily, Lovino muttered, “fine,” and dropped to the step of the doorway. “But I really do have to get up early tomorrow, so I’m not staying long.”

“Very well,” Antonio said, and slid to a seat beside him. “Why do you have to get up earlier tomorrow? Are things not on schedule?” He’d certainly understand that ordeal. Antonio was getting worse and worse at keeping up with things.

Lovino’s shoulders stiffened and he looked away. “No, the schedule’s fine. Grandpa just wants to talk to me about one of the figures before I start painting. He thinks I’m going to mess it up, and is debating doing it himself."

“What? Why would he think that? You’re his student after all, so he knows your work.”

Lovino’s lips were pressed together, and his eyes were strangely avoidant, and apprehensive about the subject. “It’s not about my technique really…or I guess it is. I guess it’s intertwined,” he groaned and held his head in his hands, “dammit, I don’t know.”

“You have me so curious, Lovino,” Antonio laughed, trying to make light. “I must know now.”

Lovino deliberated with himself for a long moment, and in a flash he decided and closed his eyes. “Fine, maybe you can help. I don’t know. You probably have more experience with that sort of thing anyway, considering your personality,” Lovino rushed, growing distinctly more uncomfortable. “So you know that the theme of all the ceiling frescoes is _The Loves of the Gods_ , right?”

Antonio looked up, thinking. Had Lovino ever mentioned that? Maybe his brain was too heavy to remember, but he had no recollection anywhere of that being mentioned. “I don’t think you did,” he said slowly.

“Oh,” Lovino coughed. “Yeah, well. That’s what it is. And things have been going well. Really well. Except, grandpa is thinking of taking over the scene I’m working on because he think he can do it more justice. But I want to finish it because I started it, you know?” Lovino stared at Antonio, eyes molten in gold and brown. Then he looked down. “But he keeps saying I won’t paint it right, and it’s infuriating.”

Antonio tilted his head closer. “What’s the subject?”

“It’s Venus,” Lovino said slowly, and he clasped his hands together. The next sentence came out rushed. “And she’s in love, and grandpa keeps saying ‘oh, Lovino. You don’t understand love like this, so it’s better if I handle it.’ And maybe I don’t understand, so if you do, maybe you can explain it to me?” His hands were tightly bound together now. “So have you ever been in love?”

Antonio was absolutely still, but his head, his heart, they were beating far too fast. It was another possible moment, like so many that have transpired between them, where he had the chance, the open opportunity to tell Lovino everything. And they were alone, and Lovino was so close, and he was a young man now.

But, Antonio wasn’t sure if he could do it. So he settled with an easy smile. “I have, yes.”

Lovino glanced at him with an expression so open, Antonio wanted to _conquer it._

“So,” Lovino asked hesitantly. “Do you think I can paint it?”

“If you’re asking the question, probably not,” Antonio answered honestly, knowing full well what a blow to Lovino’s pride this was.

Lovino cowered back from the criticism, visibly hurt, and confused. Slowly, he tried to recover some dignity, blurting, “yeah, well…It doesn’t matter. I don’t care if I ever understand. I don’t need to know. I just need to learn to _paint it_.” He rushed to his feet. “If I can continue working as a painter, then I don’t need anything more.”

Antonio could tell Lovino was about to walk away, so before he could, he swiftly stood and grasped Lovino’s elbow, lighter this time. Lovino looked at him, hurt and stubborn pride hardening the features that were so soft moments ago. Antonio didn’t want him to leave like this, so he chose his words carefully. “But I hope you do understand, Lovino. One day, I hope you do, because it is so important to me that you find love.”

Lovino was blushing, but his eyes relentless and dark umber. In a rapid movement Antonio didn’t expect, Lovino flung one hand to Antonio’s forehead and the other to his own. “That’s the fever talking,” he said. “You’re not normally this sappy.” Then he pulled away, and began walking. “Get some sleep, Antonio.”

Antonio leaned against the doorframe, eyes heavy and skin hot, and watched Lovino go. It was getting harder and harder to stay silent. He wasn’t sure how much longer this peace between them would last, and that thought on its own led Antonio into a tired, dreamless sleep, with Lovino nowhere to be found.

 

* * *

 

June, 1598

About once a month, Cardinal Edelstein visited Antonio, Gilbert, and Ludwig’s studio, because after all, it was really _his_ studio. They only worked there.

They didn’t always know when he was coming, and perhaps that was partially the reason Gilbert and Ludwig - more Ludwig really - was so anal about the presentation of the studio. Gilbert was meticulous as well, but it was more for his own benefit than anyone else’s, so he was never thinking about when the cardinal was going to visit.

Antonio was less and less in charge of how the studio looked, because he really _didn’t care_ , so he really just left everything up to the Germans.

So in the middle of June one day, while Antonio was working on another painting that needed to be completed soon, and Gilbert and Ludwig were still very much preoccupied with the same large canvas, Cardinal Edelstein popped by their studio. He floated in, cloaked in all red, and his dark blue eyes narrowed immediately.

Ludwig was the first to say something. “Cardinal, is there something I can help you with?” He took a few steps back from his painting.

Cardinal Edelstein had an odd way about him. He was very particular, but in a way, flippant as well. He waved one hand and began making a circle of the room. “Not really. I’m just checking in. Wanted to see how my commissions are looking.”

Antonio glanced over his shoulder, but decided watching him would do no good. Gilbert had come to about the same decision, and eventually Ludwig too. It was all too nerve-racking to watch their patron watch _them_. Edelstein took slow, delicate steps, occasionally stopping to pick at a brush or the table.

“Are the materials still suitable?” he asked, filling the empty air.

Ludwig was the only one who turned around, once again. “They’re all very suitable. Very high quality.”

“That’s good,” Edelstein shrugged his shoulders, and resumed his wander. He about finished his perusal of the German side, because after all, it was organized and there wasn’t much to find. So he stepped onto Antonio’s side.

Antonio’s skin itched in frustration, because he hated being watched by this man. But he really had no choice but to face forward and keep painting. His grip slowly tightened on his brush.

Edelstein picked at his paints and brushes, and for a while Antonio tuned him out. But then he heard a rustling of papers, and Antonio’s heart sank to the floor. That was…well _it wasn’t_ a “porn stash” no matter what Gilbert said. But they were sketches Antonio kept for himself, and not anything he was going to paint. He wasn’t sure what Edelstein would make of them. Would he make anything of them at all?

Edelstein hummed, and it sounded almost like fascination. “Antonio,” he called. “What are these for?”

Antonio kept his lips pressed together in a very thin line as he spoke. “They’re studies. Just studies I did some time ago.”

“Oh,” Edelstein sighed. “Is that so?” He was flipping through the pages now, going through _each one_ by the sounds of it. “This boy looks rather familiar to me. Was he a model of yours?”

Antonio hesitated, and he didn’t know what the best answer would be. A lie or the truth? “Yes,” he replied finally. Perhaps the less he made of Lovino, the better. Just to halt the cardinal’s curiosity.

Eventually, the sound of crinkling papers stopped, and clearly Edelstein was done going through them. Light footsteps then cornered Antonio’s painting, and the cardinal leaned very close to it with his narrowed eyes. Antonio was quite positive the cardinal was near of sight, but he never did admit to it. Before he straightened, his gaze traveled to Antonio’s, and Antonio swore it was an expression of complete revelation.

Before Antonio could dare assume what it meant, the cardinal spoke.

“ _You_ are a great painter,” he smiled, and his indigo eyes twinkled.

Antonio forced a smile, but was very confused. “Thank you,” he said.

Edelstein kept smiling for a moment, and then his face resumed its natural disapproved purse. “All right then,” he drawled. “Looks like there’s nothing you need from me here.” His red cloak swept around the corner. “Have a good day,” were his parting words.

The cloak swished a few more times, and it wasn’t until the front door shut did the three artists turn in their stools to face each other.

Antonio stared at his drawings, mouth slightly agape, and brows knit close. Gilbert was staring at him too, he could feel it. Seconds passed in silent confusion.

“So,” Ludwig coughed. “Does anyone know what the hell that was about?”

Antonio turned his head to them slowly, but he couldn’t release the tension in his brows. His eyes were narrowed like the cardinal’s now, and tough like malachite. “I have no idea.”

Gilbert tapped his foot, and grabbed a brush violently. “He’s a weird son of a bitch, I’ll say that much.”

“Yeah,” Antonio muttered. “Let’s leave it at that.”

 

* * *

 

July, 1598

After Antonio completed commissions, he felt his most vivacious. That was when he’d strut across Rome in a fervor, looking for excitement, passion, and release after weeks of being pent up in a studio. He would drink, and drink heavily. And fight anyone who dared get in his way. He was freed from commitment, but so free he almost didn’t know what to do with himself, and tortured by the reminder he couldn’t share his secret pain with Lovino.

He hesitated more and more seeking him out, but it was hard not to. And one day, as if someone had pulled him by the strings of his own heart, he found himself at the doors of Palazzo Farnese, knowing full well his visit was unexpected, unprepared, and at least by one person, unwanted. Fortunately, with Antonio’s reputation growing as it did, he could go almost anywhere, especially with Cardinal Edelstein’s name attached to his. He wasn’t too fond of the last part, but it helped him go places, so he tried to ignore it.

He asked attendants in the building where to go, and they directed him to the west wing. It was a large and grand building, but all of the palazzos in Rome were, so Antonio had grown rather desensitized to the sublimeness of it all. The doors were cast wide open, and Italian shouts echoed into the hallways. It sounded like an argument. But Antonio’s steps didn’t hesitate, because at this point he’d come so far, and it’d been too long since he’d seen Lovino.

He entered the room, but it was spacious, so he wasn’t immediately noticed. Scaffolding bridged the floor to the tall barrel-vaulted ceiling, and buckets of empty plaster lay discarded on the floor. Next to them, he saw Roma Vargas, tall and strong, but a bit older, with his hands on his hips and a pointed glare to the top of the scaffolding beside him.

“For God’s sake, Lovino. Stop being such a child and get down here. We aren’t done talking about this,” he shouted with a rapid gesture of his hand.

Antonio followed Roma’s glare upwards, to the top of the scaffolding, and spotted Lovino crouched over what could only be a bucket of wet plaster, furiously mixing it.

“And I said, we are done!” Lovino growled. “You made your point, I get it. I’m a brat. Blah, blah, blah. I should be more like Feliciano. Blah, blah, blah. I should be nicer. Whatever. I heard you. I heard you a million times!”

Roma shook his head wearily and groaned. “That’s not at all what I said! Just come down from there! I can’t talk to you like this.”

“I am not coming down until I finish this, so too bad,” Lovino protested, voice rising.

Roma paced in the same spot, grumbling to himself, and Antonio suddenly realized how… _alike_ these two were. Then Rome kicked an empty bucket and called back, “I’m going for a walk. You cool your head in the meantime and we’ll talk about it when I get back.”

Lovino laughed mockingly. “I cool my head? Go dunk your head in fountain. You’re the one that needs to cool off.”

Before Roma could say something he could regret, he tossed his hands in the air and started walking. And he was walking right on the path to Antonio.

Antonio didn’t understand what the situation was, but he had grown increasingly tense watching the exchange, and when Roma finally made eye contact with him, he could barely muster a smile.

Roma, so frustrated he didn’t want to slow down, barely looked at Antonio as he shouted back to Lovino. “Carriedo’s here! Maybe he can talk some sense into you.”

The last part of the sentence caught Antonio off guard, and he barely cared that Roma purposefully shoved into his shoulder as he stormed out. Antonio then looked up at Lovino, who carefully peered over the balcony of his scaffolding to get a better view.

“Lovino!” Antonio called, swiftly returning to good humor and spreading his lips in a grin. He didn’t know transpired, but he certainly didn’t want to start off his visit with Lovino in anger. He continued to walk forward until he just about underneath Lovino. “I’ve come to visit you! Are you surprised?”

Antonio couldn’t quite make out the expression on Lovino’s face, as he was too far. But he did hear him sigh.

“Now is…not a great time.” Lovino’s head retreated to the center of his platform so that Antonio couldn’t see him.  

Antonio hummed and walked around the scaffolding, measuring its capacity. “Would you rather come down, or I come up?”

Lovino sighed again. “Why don’t you just come back later? I’m not in a great mood right now.”

“Ah, well we can’t have that, can we?” Antonio hoisted himself onto the ladder, and began walking steadily up the bars. “You know,” he said, panting a little. “When you’re angry, the best thing you can do is talk it out.”

“I’m not the angry one, asshole. Why would you automatically assume that,” Lovino replied lowly, his voice closer.

Antonio laughed shortly. “Well you don’t sound happy.”

“I’m a complicated human being. Just drop it,” he ordered.

But Antonio had already reached the top of the scaffolding and carefully pulled himself over the railing. It wasn’t large, but it was definitely made for two people, perhaps in case Lovino and Roma were to work in tandem with each other. Lovino sat with his back turned in the small corner of the platform, and the bucket of wet plaster left in the center.

Antonio painted a fresco once, but he was by no means a “fresco painter”. And even when he painted a fresco, he never had to be as high as this to do it. So he wasn’t quite sure how to maneuver himself, and suddenly felt very, _very_ stuck.

“Um,” he began, awkwardly. “How about you come here. I’m not quite sure how we’ll both manage crawling on this thing.”

“You climbed up here and now you’re worried about its stability,” Lovino scoffed.

Antonio’s brows lowered, because Lovino was really not giving in an inch today. And reluctantly, he put his full weight on the platform and crawled near Lovino.

Lovino, sensing his presence, shifted his position again, so he was still facing away.

“What are you doing?” Antonio blurted. He was already damn uncomfortable on this platform, way too high up for his comfort, and now Lovino was ignoring him? “Lovino, just turn around. I’m already up here.”

“Why do I need to turn around?”

“Now you’re just being difficult.”

“I’m serious,” Lovino countered. “We can have a conversation like this, can’t we?”

Antonio was so ticked off he was _smiling._ “I can’t tell if you’re joking with me, but if you don’t want me to throw this plaster overboard,” Antonio warned, grabbing the bucket. “You’d better turn around.”

Lovino tapped his fingers on the wood, debating something. “I’ll turn around,” he said slowly. “But!” He raised his finger. “You have to listen to my side of the story before you do anything. Got that?”

“O— _kay_ ,” Antonio replied, and his eyes narrowed.

With practiced ease, Lovino then twisted around on the wood and faced Antonio. His head was lowered at first, and Antonio tilted his gaze to find it. But slowly and inch by inch, Lovino raised his head until he was meeting Antonio’s gaze. And at first, Antonio didn’t grasp what all of the fuss was about, because all he saw was the golden-brown of Lovino’s eyes, but then his gaze shifted and he saw the beautiful skin of Lovino’s left cheek red and raw.

“Before you say anything,” Lovino warned, holding his hand in front of Antonio. “You have to understand we were arguing, things were getting really heated, and he didn’t mean to really, but I was digging pretty deep with my words and—”

“I’m going to kill him,” Antonio heard himself say. He didn’t realize he’d said it aloud, with the roar of anger still so loud in his ears. He was barely even thinking now. All he could feel was one emotion after the other, each one stronger, more crazed, more impassioned.

Lovino exhaled tiredly and crawled a bit closer. He turned his face to the side and gave Antonio a closer look. “See? It’s not that bad. It’ll probably go away in a few hours.”

Antonio’s eyes were ablaze, but he still held Lovino’s face gently in his hands. His eyes passed over the skin, inspecting it carefully. Through gritted teeth, he said, “fine. Tell me the whole story. Then I’ll decide.”

Lovino shook his head, dismissing Antonio’s concern.

Antonio wondered sometimes…If Lovino didn’t realize Antonio held romantic feelings for him, what does he think of him in a moment like this? Does he think he’s overprotective? Insane? A violent man?

Lovino licked his lips and enunciated slowly. “It’s kind of complicated. We were talking about a lot of things. At first it was about a new commission, and then it was the scene we were supposed to start today, then at some point I tripped and knocked over three buckets of plaster.” Lovino rubbed his good cheek with his hand. He peered at Antonio with one eye and added, “then your cardinal came by, and I don’t know. I was pissed off, annoyed, and tired. I’m still tired. So I yelled at the cardinal, basically told him to ‘piss off’ because he was being really… _weird._ ” Lovino shook his head. “So the cardinal told my grandfather, and my grandfather at that point had had it up to here,” Lovino gestured to his chin. “He confronted me again, I yelled back at him, then I spat in his face, _and then_ he slapped me across the face.”

Antonio’s heart was racing, and his breath came fast, but he tried to contain it all with closed eyes and a hand pressed to his forehead. It wasn’t uncommon for apprentices to be struck by their masters. It had happened to Antonio dozens of times, of course. But Lovino _wasn’t_ an apprentice anymore, and it was his grandfather he was arguing with. And it was Lovino! _His Lovino_ and...

Somehow the context was not helping the picture clear at all. Was it actually making it worse?

 _Think about something else. Think about something else,_ Antonio told himself. _Focus on a different part of the conversation._

“Antonio?” Lovino prompted carefully.

Antonio took a deep breath, but did not open his eyes. “Um, why,” he paused to take a labored breath. “Why was Edelstein here?”

Lovino clicked his tongue. “Fuck if I know. He was being _really_ shifty. Asking me to come down from the scaffolding _as I’m working_. Then talks to me about basically nothing. I’m wasting my time and he kept giving me this weird look. So I told him to piss off and he went away.”

“Yeah, Edelstein…” Antonio muttered. “I don’t like him either. I agree, he’s shifty.” Now Antonio was buzzing in liquid anger. He had a suspicion of what Edelstein was up to, but he’d have to ask Gilbert to be sure. “And the commission,” Antonio managed to blurt out. He was clawing at his head now, trying to calm down. “What was that about?” He had to calm down. He had to. By now his anger had transformed into something like panic, because he didn't know how to explain to Lovino why he was so angry. He didn't know if he should. He didn't know if he was ruining every fucking thing between them right now. 

Lovino didn’t reply right away. But slowly, eventually, Antonio felt Lovino’s arms encircle his shoulders, and his slim, deft fingers pressing through his shirt.

“I don’t understand what’s happening right now,” Lovino admitted, his voice shyer, younger. “But just breathe, okay? Everything’s fine.”

Antonio felt Lovino’s face pressed against his hair, and he savored the familiar rustic scent, and the steady beat of Lovino’s heart. It’d been ages since they touched like this, and god how Antonio missed it. He wrapped his arms around Lovino, ensuring he stay there, at least for a bit. He needed him close. He needed him close forever.

Lovino chuckled softly, and it tickled Antonio’s ear. “I don’t understand you,” he said. “Everything’s fine. I'm telling you.”

Antonio held Lovino even tighter.  

Everything was _not_ fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! The next update will be pretty soon after this I hope.
> 
> Please comment :)


	5. Tenebrism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you say... S E X U A L T E N S I O N ?

_Tenebrism: also called dramatic illumination, is a style of_ _painting_ _using very pronounced_ _chiaroscuro_ _, where there are violent contrasts of_ _light_ _and_ _dark_ _, and where darkness becomes a dominating feature of the image. The technique was developed to add drama to an image through a_ _spotlight_ _effect, and was popular during the_ _Baroque_ _period of painting. Tenebrism is used only to obtain a dramatic impact while chiaroscuro is a broader term, also covering the use of less extreme contrasts of light to enhance the illusion of three-dimensionality. Caravaggio is generally credited with popularizing tenebrism as a technique._

 

Rome, Italy

July, 1598

 

* * *

 

Long after Antonio left, Lovino lie atop the scaffolding, staring at the ceiling and without the slightest motivation to paint. The pain in his cheek still lingered, but his head was the problem: full to the brim of so much commotion, there was no way to untangle it.  

He wasn’t sure how many hours passed by while he lay there in a daze, but at some point footsteps echoed, and Lovino sighed, because that could only mean his grandfather had returned.

“Still up there, are you?” he called. There was still the lingering sense of frustration, but much softer than before. “What did Carriedo want?”

 _What did he ever want?_ Lovino didn’t know. He was like a tempest that swept in and out of Lovino’s life with no warning. Dark and dangerous, but with green eyes so bright, as though they tried to procure something from Lovino’s soul each time they were near. It stirred something in Lovino’s chest the first time they met, but he tried his best to quelch it, time and time again. Three years later, he was no closer to understanding the heavy, waiting stare.

Lovino sighed. “Nothing. He just wanted to see the fresco,” he replied blandly.

Roma pursed his lips and made a sound of disapproval. “That doesn’t sound like anything he’d do.”

Lovino shook his head. _Who cares if it was?_ Antonio did so many impulsive, asinine things. What was the point in trying to find sense in them?

“Well, I hope you had some time to cool off,” his grandfather coughed. “Because Lovino…I think the commission might be a good thing for you. It’s an opportunity, and Cardinal Farnese will pay for the trip, so I feel like it’s a mistake for you to turn it down.”

Lovino rubbed his hands over his face. “Can’t I think about it for a fucking second? It’s not like I’d be changing houses, or moving to Florence. I’d be changing countries. I have the right to be a brat about it if I want to.”

Now it was his grandfather’s turn to sigh. Damn this room has had a day full of labored breathing.

“Just,” his grandfather began, tiredly, more sympathetically. “Just think about this. You have had to work under my shadow, and Feliciano’s, for most of your life. I am well aware of that. So just consider the fact that in moving away, you’d finally be working completely free from us for a little while.” He laughed softly. “Obviously things are getting more tense now that we’re working with each other everyday, so just think about it. I know it’s two years. But you’re young, and if there’s ever a time to do it, now might be the time.”

Two years. Two fucking years. It was not as though he wanted to leave Feliciano or his grandfather, but he could tell, in a way, that his growth as a painter was stunted. He loved painting Palazzo Farnese, and truly wanted nothing more than to continue. But in the end, it wasn’t under his name. He worked equally with his grandfather, but it would be his grandfather, forever and always, that would be remembered as the artist of the fresco.

And then he would be leaving Antonio…and that bubbled an uncomfortable and mysterious new series of emotions he didn’t want to think about. He didn’t want to _feel._

“I’ll consider it,” Lovino finally said.

“Good,” his grandfather nodded. Lovino could hear him pace. “And Lovino…I’m sorry I hurt you. You know I didn’t mean it, right?”

Lovino rolled his eyes. “I know.”

“Truthfully, I wasn’t too happy with Cardinal Edelstein’s presence either, and I agree he has an odd way about him. But if there’s one thing you have to learn, and learn soon, Lovino…it’s that to be a successful painter, you can’t always say what you think. Not to your patron, and surely not to a cardinal, no matter what the circumstance. You have to learn to pretend.”

“Yeah,” Lovino repeated flatly.

Roma sensed Lovino’s growing unease, and quietly began cleaning up the mess left on the floor. A few times, he began to say something more, but Lovino was done talking for the day, and soon stopped trying.

Lovino didn’t doze or sleep. He just continued staring at the ceiling, wishing once again that he could live inside it, where everything was simpler, more beautiful, and not smeared by reality’s crude fingers.

 

* * *

 

Days after Antonio last saw Lovino, he received a new commission from Edelstein: a painting of John the Baptist. He breathed a sigh of relief after reading the letter, hoping that somehow, the whole episode had been forgotten. He still didn’t understand Edelstein’s last visit, but was trying his best to put it out of his mind.

Unfortunately, his eyes continued to pass over his drawings anxiously, obsessively, almost every time he entered the studio. Gilbert noticed, of course. But he didn’t say anything for a while. Not until one day, after Ludwig ran out to gather some food, and they were alone.

“Antonio, you have to let it go,” Gilbert said. He was staring at Antonio, and Antonio stared at the drawings. “Just let it lie. You can’t torture yourself over this.”

Antonio shut his eyes, and thought fiercely. He tried to think of any hints. Any at all, that he had missed. “I just don’t understand what it was all about.”

Gilbert didn’t say anything, which peaked Antonio’s attention.

“Do _you?”_ he asked, voice dark, but pleading.

Gilbert smiled almost too easily and shrugged his shoulders. “How could I know what goes on inside that prick’s head?” he joked, but his smile trailed off the longer Antonio glared at him. Gilbert looked to the ground. “I think he probably knows about you,” he said.

“Oh,” Antonio breathed a little relieved. “Well, that’s…I mean, I don’t give a damn what he thinks really, so I guess that’s fin--”

“No, no,” Gilbert shook his head and pressed his thumb to his forehead. “He doesn’t just know you’re homosexual. He knows that you want Lovino.” Gilbert seemed to backtrack again, starting a new sentence, “or actually, I think he believes you and Lovino are already a thing.”

None of this made Antonio happy, but so far none of it was as bad as he thought. Because after all, there was no proof at all for Edelstein to accuse him of sodomy, if that was his plan. “How would he think that?”

Gilbert raised his head, almost glaring at him with his sharp, red eyes. “Antonio, the drawings are one thing, which he could’ve made something of, or not. I have no fucking clue. But you _obsess_ over Lovino. You have for years. I don’t think Edelstein’s last studio visit was the first time he noticed either. I think it was just the first time he became enticed by it.”

 _“Enticed?”_ Antonio repeated, his voice lowering to an uncomfortable pitch.

Gilbert pressed his lips together. “You know as well I do that Edelstein has certain preferences. You can tell by the commissions he has you paint.”

“Yes, I know that. But as far as I could tell, it was more like curiosity or something. Not anything he would ever act on.” Antonio’s blood was pumping, and surely his cheeks were red in anticipated fury.

“I don’t know if he would act on it, but,” Gilbert paused and rested his hands on his knees. “I think he believes Lovino is like you, and I don’t know…he might be attracted to him in the same way you are.”

Antonio could hardly believe what he was hearing. Of course Lovino was attractive. He was beautiful. Alluring. Amazing. But he was quite positive Edelstein disliked Lovino’s rather hard-headed personality. It surely couldn’t be a romantic interest then. So if Gilbert was right, it had to be purely sexual. A curious lust. And that…that made Antonio _furious._

Gilbert was quiet for a long time, allowing Antonio to think and stew on his words.

Antonio was looking at nothing now, his eyes clouded in imagining Edelstein looking at Lovino, wanting him, _touching_ him.

“I have to ask,” Gilbert prompted, drawing Antonio back to focus. He was staring at Antonio openly, curiously. “Do you know where Lovino stands?”

Antonio looked at him, face blank. _Where Lovino stands?_

“After all this time, you must have an idea of what he wants, right?” Gilbert asked, his eyes peering closely.

Antonio didn’t know what to say. He wanted Lovino for years. _Pined after him_. But for so long, he felt like he wasn’t even allowed to broach the subject to him, dare even mention the possibility of a relationship. And Lovino, although older, was still very much the same in attitude as he was at sixteen. He didn’t appear to recognize romantic feelings at all: in himself or by others. Antonio had seen girls flirt with him, and make eyes, and it made him green with envy until he realized Lovino never really registered it. For better or for worse, Lovino was the type of artist that was married first and foremost to his art. So where did that leave Antonio?

“I don’t really,” he finally replied, dipping his head down and letting his unruly curls drip in front of his face.

Silence again. Just the sound of birds and Italian leaking through the windows.

“Maybe it’s about time to find out then.”

Antonio’s heart heaved in his chest. He wanted Lovino. He wanted him from the moment he saw him. Everything, everything about him was like a light. It beckoned him. And as daring as he was, pursuing another man was not something to be taken lightly. Not in Rome, and not anywhere.

But the need burned greater, and he wanted to push Lovino further out of his comfort. Draw him out like no one ever had.

He raised his eyes to Gilbert, and they shined like the paint that lay abandoned on his table. Dark and deep green, and full of pure, untouched possibility.

 

* * *

 

August, 1598

Lovino continued to deliberate the offer to move away, and as weeks passed, he felt as though he was coming no closer to a clear answer. So whenever his grandfather wasn’t actively pressing him for a decision, he tried his best to push it out of his mind and keep painting, and to a less important degree, keep living.

But other things were changing as well. After a long period of just touch-and-go, Antonio was beginning to seek him out more than before. It felt like someone had turned back the clock, and Antonio was once again foolishly pestering Lovino noon and night for him to be his model. Except he never asked that anymore. Antonio never asked anything of him really. He simply and assertively demanded Lovino’s presence.

Antonio let him bask in newfound artist’s exhaustion for months, but no longer. Now Antonio drew Lovino out from the sanctity and peace of his bedroom to the darkness of the night, guided only by the light of Antonio’s eyes.

Sometimes, Antonio whisked him away to restaurants, to bars, and they’d always get foolishly drunk, because it was as though Antonio didn’t know how to do anything in his life less than one hundred percent. And when he walked Lovino home he held him securely by the shoulders, singing songs so loud, they echoed down the streets. Lovino laughed and laughed. It was the alcohol for the most part, but Antonio, in a mood like this, was like no one else Lovino had or would ever meet.

Memories were hazy and soft from nights like those, but Antonio’s presence had a way of burning through crystal clear. And when Lovino awoke the next morning, exhausted, parched, and with a pounding head, his heart twisted remembering how close they walked together, how near Antonio’s face was to his, and how much bolder Antonio’s gaze had become. Lovino didn’t understand why he felt so anxious. But it he stayed curiously on edge for the rest of the day.

If they didn’t go out at night, Antonio would kidnap Lovino on his days off, and take him all over Rome. Some days they’d run in and out of churches, critiquing, aweing, and in Antonio’s case, _making fun_ of the art on the walls. Others, they’d scurry in and out of shops, any shops they’d find. Because as much as Antonio was masculine, he was also incredibly childish, and he seemed to find great amusement taking Lovino to sweet shops and plant nurseries and embarrassing him with odd purchases. Antonio bought him a bouquet of Margherite once (Italian daisies), and presented them to Lovino with a flourish and batting eyelashes.

Lovino was equal parts amused and confused. But he grabbed the bouquet rapidly from Antonio’s hands and smelled the flowers. A small smile betrayed his lips, and he quipped, “you’re never going to impress women this way, you know. It’s all about roses for them, remember that or else you’re going to die alone.” He turned to Antonio, happy and teasing, but Antonio didn’t have at all the reaction he expected.  

Antonio looked him, eyes alight and heated, then leaned over the bouquet, so close to Lovino, and peered up at him through his dark, curly hair. “I’ve never cared about impressing women.”

Lovino was so stunned into silence Antonio had to laugh before he could move again. And even after he moved much, much slower.

But if they weren’t drinking, or running around churches, or poking into shops, Lovino insisted that they go for walks somewhere about the city.

Since it was the height of summer, walking under the bask of sun was exhausting, no matter how far the journey. Antonio dressed in black all year long with no cares it seemed, but as they were wandering down by the bank of the Tiber one afternoon, Lovino just about lost it.

“For fuck’s sake!” he shouted suddenly, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Antonio was startled, but grinned at him. “What is it?”

“God, can’t you feel it? The damn heat. I feel like I’m melting!” he cried.

Antonio perused him with an oddly serious look. “Well, you do look rather red…”

Like all of his decisions, Lovino had to make it at once. Abruptly, he turned on his heel, and began marching down the bank of the river, pulling his shirt over his head as he did so. “That’s it! I’m drowning myself in the Tiber. I don’t give a shit anymore. I’m too damn hot.” He left his shirt on the sand as well as his boots, and walked into the cool, river water with only his pants. He sighed in relief, dunking his head under the water a few times. After a while he was surprised Antonio hadn’t yet joined him, so he peered over his shoulder.

Antonio was sitting on the bank, hand under his chin.

Lovino frowned at him. “Aren’t you hot too?” A few others were swimming in the Tiber too. He wasn’t the only one.

Antonio hummed a little tune and looked to the sky. “No, not really.”

So Lovino cooled off by himself for a few minutes longer, then slowly returned back to the sandy bank and plopped himself next to Antonio with a sigh. Water dripped from his hair and he closed his eyes. Then he felt Antonio shove his crumpled shirt into his hands.

Lovino glanced at him, ready to make a complaint, but any wit he had died on his tongue the moment he matched eyes with Antonio.

Antonio was smiling, but the spark in his eyes, the crook of his lips, the drama of his eyebrows…it all felt so _dangerous_. “I don’t want you to get sunburned,” he said.

Lovino let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and more infuriating than that, Antonio noticed it with something akin to wonder. “Um,” he grabbed the shirt, “right.” Briskly he threw it on, and crossed his arms over his knees. After some time, he belatedly blurted the only witty comment he could think of. “I don’t get sunburned, asshole. I’m Italian after all.”

Antonio laughed lightly, delicately, and replied, “well, let’s not take the chance, shall we?”

Lovino grumbled curses under his breath, but let the odd conversation die with that.

Secretly, something pulled at his heart telling him that it was the end of an era. But even he didn’t know what that meant.

 

* * *

 

September, 1598

Sunday was always a day off. And after mass, Lovino, Feliciano, and their grandfather would walk back from their house squabbling over what to make for lunch. It was Lovino’s turn, so he made the final decision, and once inside they dispersed, so Lovino was alone to concentrate, fishing out the ingredients, and measuring them precisely. As he chopped tomatoes, he began humming - something he never did - and kept humming as he wandered about the kitchen. His grandfather entered without him noticing.

“You’re in a good mood,” Roma pointed out, and took a seat at the table.

Lovino immediately shut up and began cooking more quietly. “I’m just thinking about lunch.”

His grandfather didn’t say anything, and Lovino chopped the mozzarella carefully.

“Have you made a decision about the commission?”

Lovino pressed his lips together. “Not yet.”

“I see,” Roma replied slowly. And it was silent for a while longer. Distantly, Feliciano was talking to the cats again. “You seem to have become closer with the artist Carriedo.”

Lovino’s knife paused for a moment, just a moment. “We’re friends. I wouldn’t say we’ve gotten any closer.”

“Oh?” his grandfather mocked. “You’re with him more than your brother now, and you’ve never in your life had a friend that close.”

Lovino shook his head and sighed. “I don’t know what you’re saying, old man.”

Roma tapped his fingers on the dining room table. “I just have to warn you that Carriedo has a bit of a _reputation_ ,” he said slowly, in the tone of voice he reserved for when he and Lovino were at work.

“I already know he’s an asshole, don’t worry about that,” Lovino laughed, and grabbed the baguette of bread a little harder than he meant to.

“That’s not exactly what I’m referring to.” Roma paused, and Lovino could hear him tense. “Have you ever felt…afraid to be alone with him?”

Lovino’s head popped up from the chopping board and he he glanced to his grandfather. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? You can’t possible think he’s still trying to kill me because of your shitty rivalry.”

Again, Lovino’s attempts at jest were met with deaf ears. Roma stared at the table with his large hands clasped together. Finally, he sighed. “I know you’ve never cared for things outside art, Lovino. But you’re not a child anymore, and you need to realize, the world is not as simple as it is when you are painting. It’s far more complicated, and if you’re not careful, it can be dangerous too.”

“What the fuck are you going on about?” Lovino never had any patience for veiled words.

Roma looked at him, his eyes dark and brown, but tight with age. “Just that it’s about time you started paying more attention to the world around you,” he pointed his finger to Lovino. “And more importantly, the _people_ you keep around you.”

“What?” Lovino replied, absolutely red and indignant. He _hated_ when his grandfather treated him like this. “I can make my own fucking decisions, grandpa. Just stay the hell out of it.”

Before his grandfather had a chance at a retort, Feliciano called from up the stairs, “Lovi? Grandpa? Are you guys fighting again?”

 _“NO!”_ they both shouted back.

Reluctantly, and with red faces, they ignored each other for the rest of lunch. It was days like these Lovino was tempted to get the hell out of his family, and considered the commission with far more care.

 

* * *

 

Lovino was painting Bacchus, spreading paint across his legs and sculpting his body with his paint brush, when he remembered his strange dream. As soon as the images flew across his mind, his brush dropped from the wet plaster, tentatively shaking in his hand, and he felt heat rush to his cheeks.

He’d never…well, he’d never _paid attention_ to dreams like that before. But this time it was different, because Antonio was there, and he was closer than they’d ever been. Closer than when he held him after bar fight with the Englishmen, and closer than when they strolled together alone, drunk, and at night. It was different than the Antonio he knew in real life, yet also eerily similar, because that gaze that so haunted Lovino in real life was ever present demanding something of Lovino he never thought he’d be asked.

Lovino shut his eyes, trying to erase the false pictures from his memory, because for God’s sake, he’d never seen Antonio unclothed before! So how was it possible he could dream of such a thing?! He dared to think what Antonio would say - no, would _laugh_ \- if he ever told him what his dream was. It was so, so…vivid. And weird. And uncomfortable. And confusing.

“Fuck it,” Lovino mumbled, and slapped more paint onto his palette. He was going to bury this dream down into the depths of his soul, because he had a fresco to finish and he must carry on.

But time crawled on at a stubbornly annoying pace when you’re distressed, and no matter how hard he tried, Lovino found the dream returning to his mind about every five minutes. His face was left flushed, cross, and tense the longer he worked.

And he was almost thankful when his grandfather shouted at him to come down, because for once he wanted to stop painting, especially this nude man of all things.

“Lovino, come down here and take a break. We have a visitor.”

Lovino sighed, setting down his brush and palette, before slowly and carefully, climbing his way down the scaffolding. As he peeked through the bars of the ladder, he spotted his grandfather clad in white and cream painters clothes, but also a red cloak, and Lovino wondered if it was Cardinal Farnese to ask him about the commission again. He stifled a groan and kept going downwards. Once he reached the floor, the calm Italian conversation became clearer, and Lovino looked again to realize it wasn’t _his_ cardinal talking to his grandfather, but Antonio’s instead.

 _Fuck, if this day couldn’t get any more awkward,_ he groaned to himself.

But the conversation he had with his grandfather echoed in his head, and somehow he managed a smile on his face as he tread closer. Roma looked at him approvingly, and waved to the cardinal.

“Cardinal Edelstein came by to commend us on our work. Isn’t that nice, Lovino?” Roma was warning him, making sure Lovino would act correctly.

Well dammit if he was going to act the most cordial possible.

Lovino smiled and looked at the cardinal’s pursed face. “Thank you for stopping by. Do you enjoy frescoes?”

A quiver of a smile hovered over Edelstein’s lips, but it was soon shrugged off and he glanced around dismissively. “I do, yes. But I was more curious with watching the Vargas family work. I’ve heard great things.” He trailed off, and those dark blueish eyes sought Lovino’s grandfather. “Roma, do you mind a great deal if I had a private conversation with Lovino? I wanted to ask him about future work.”

Lovino glanced to his grandfather, whose reaction was both confused, worried, and pleased. But he was far more accustomed to accommodating patrons than Lovino, so he easily grinned and made a merry goodbye. “Of course, of course. I’m going to continue my _giornata_ , but please continue your conversation.” He nodded to Lovino, giving one last warning to be cautious with his words.

Lovino averted his eyes from his grandfather and reluctantly met the peculiar stare from the cardinal. “So,” he began. “What can I help you with?”

Edelstein looked at him with the same narrowed eyes, only this time, they appeared the tiny bit pleased. “Well, I’ve been talking to the artist Antonio Carriedo and he mentioned how he so longed to use you as a model for one of his paintings. So I proposed to him a commission with you as the model, and he, of course, readily accepted. I just wanted to make sure this was all okay with you.”

Lovino’s ears were flooded with the new information. But he tried to narrow it down, because for one: Antonio doesn’t like Edelstein. He never has. And two, There was no way in heaven, hell, or earth he would ask Edelstein’s permission to paint him (he would just do it of his own accord).

So that just left the fact that Edelstein wanted him to model for Antonio as part of a new commission, and what? Wanted his _permission?_

Lovino’s face wanted so desperately to contort in annoyance. But he fought hard, and his lips tilted upwards in the most _delicate_ smile. His grandfather’s warnings chimed in his head, and he tried his very best to be a polite artist. “Of course. It’s no problem at all.”

Edelstein lowered his head, and suddenly his eyes were wider, more indigo, and much, much closer. “Very good.” He leaned back, straightened his cloak, and wandered away. “Antonio will be in touch.”

Lovino had to bite his lip so he wouldn’t reply sarcastically.

_What a weird goddamn son of a bitch._

He’d make Antonio buy him dinner for weeks just for agreeing to this stunt. And that pleasant thought kept him occupied enough to continue working on his fresco, no longer preoccupied with the dreams of last night.

 

* * *

 

 

Days after the conversation with Edelstein, Lovino had all but put it out of his head. No one mentioned the cardinal, and he hadn’t seen Antonio in about a week, so he sat at supper feeling free as bird, though perhaps not quite as happy.

“Lovi! Lovi!” Feliciano beckoned, stretching his arms across the table and displaying sketches on large sheets of cream paper. “What do you think of these, hm? I have to present the final one tomorrow, and I can’t decide.”

Feliciano was a professional artist now. In the same league as Antonio, but of course, not as famous. Lovino tried not to think about it, but it ticked him off whenever he realized Feliciano was more of an equal to Antonio than he was.

However, Lovino couldn’t let his petty jealousy get in the way when Feliciano asked him for a critique. He grasped the pages and studied them thoroughly. His lips curled up when he saw that no matter how grand Feliciano seemed to be, he was still very much the same on the inside. As perfectionist as ever. “Your first is best, of course,” Lovino said dryly and tossed the rest of the pages on the table with a flick of the wrist. “I don’t know why you doubt yourself. Your first draft is always best, and the longer you agonize the worse it gets.”

Feliciano was almost crying in relief. “Oh, thank goodness, Lovino. I really couldn’t tell them apart anymore. They all looked the same! But your eye is so good. Thank you! Thank you!” Now Feliciano was _actually c_ rying, and damn that must mean he was plenty stressed. Lovino almost flew out of his seat, trying to figure out what he could do to help. He grabbed some bathroom tissue, but Feliciano declined, saying that his _“tears weren’t worth the money!”_ Lovino couldn’t help but scream curses as he tried to find another solution. The only one being was carrying the cats, Rafa and Angelo, to the table where Feliciano lay weeping. They were round, happy, and comforting to Feliciano, and slowly, Lovino saw his brother wipe his tears away, and the waves of stress dissipate with his pets of the cats.

Lovino heaved sighs of reliefs while his brother was comforted by the mere girth of their cats. What an odd thing.

Their grandfather had long since gone to bed at this point, so Lovino suggested he dig up a bottle of wine to further calm Feliciano’s nerves. He rummaged in the cabinet and fetched an untouched red. Soon enough Feliciano had ceased his tears and was beginning to laugh anxiously at the recollection of it all.

Lovino nursed his first glass of wine, while Feliciano was well onto his third, and they continued discussing Feliciano’s project. In the midst of their very thorough conversation about the plants Feliciano was including in his paintings foreground, both of the Vargas twins jumped at the yell of a familiar artist.

“Lovino! Lovino Vargas!” Antonio shouted, and it sounded like he was just outside the door. “LO-VI-NO!”

Lovino’s flushed, and whether it was more from embarrassment or anger, he did not know.

Feliciano glanced at Lovino sympathetically. “You should go to him. Maybe he’s in trouble.”

“He’s always in some sort of trouble,” Lovino grumbled, but stood to his seat anyway, and surveyed the outdoors from the safety of his curtained window. He saw Antonio’s shadow sweeping across the lonely alleyway of their house. He was _certainly_ drunk. “I’m going to step outside for a moment,” he said after a while. “Is that okay?”

Feliciano smiled at him as he caressed the cats. So much brighter than before. “Don’t worry about me! I’ll be okay! Just check on Antonio. He might need your help.”

 _Maybe,_ Lovino mused dryly.

But truly, there was hardly a force that could halt him from opening his door to Antonio that night. Once wide and open, Lovino spotted Antonio, curled against the stone of the parallel house, holding a bottle of wine between his two hands. Lovino assumed that could not have been his first bottle.

Lovino closed the door behind himself, silently praying Feliciano would be awake to let him in when he needed it, and began walking to Antonio. Fortunately, this alleyway was off the main road, and usually empty at night.

“Are you drunk already, bastard,” Lovino mocked lightly, as he neared Antonio’s body. “Would have figured it’d be too early for you.”

Antonio’s head was low between his knees, but at the alarm of Lovino’s voice, it shot up and he deftly jumped to his feet, holding the bottle to his side like a shield, whilst his dagger remain full on display on the other hip.

Lovino was not nearly as distracted by the odd dreams as he once was, and simply avoided the eye contact to say, “look, if you’re this drunk, just go back home to your mistress or whatever.”

Antonio in daylight may have joked about those words, laughed at them, or at the very least, ignored them. But Antonio in the night, hydrated in liquor, did _not_ appreciate them.

The bottle dropped to the ground, and Lovino soon felt Antonio’s strong hands on his shirt, lunging him straight for the wall. Lovino clenched his eyes until he realized that Antonio laid him delicately, and precisely against the stone. And his strong, broad arms, encircling him. Slowly, Lovino opened his wary, brown eyes to a calamity of green orbiting before him.

“Lovino,” Antonio said, and despite their long companionship, Lovino couldn’t detect how much Antonio had drank by the sound of his voice - whether it was one bottle or five, he had no way of knowing. Antonio’s voice stayed clear. “I need to ask you something, and you need to say no,” he breathed rapidly. It sounded like he rehearsed it, but why would that be?

Lovino stayed still against the wall, letting Antonio’s manic hands hover over him, not staying anywhere with confidence “Okay,” Lovino said, full of caution. “Go on with it.”

Antonio’s glanced above to absolute darkness, before matching Lovino’s gaze again. “I’m going to ask you one more time to model for me, but this time, I want you to say no, you got that?”

Lovino blinked at him. He was so terribly sober and not at all on the same page. “Um,” Lovino began, slowly recalling his conversation with the cardinal. “If this is about Edelstein, I already told him I’d model for you, so there’s no need to ask, okay? It’s fine.” Lovino wanted to end this conversation quickly, but his remark was met with heated desperation.

Antonio’s eyes, the gaze that had so haunted Lovino, so taunted him in his recent, strange fantasies, sought something deep. And Lovino, in all of his tentativeness, was unsure of how much to give.

“I want you to say _no,_ do you understand that?” Antonio demanded again, his tan skin glistening in sweat.

Lovino still hadn’t grasped the severity of Antonio’s plea. So he kept insisting the same thing. “Antonio, I already told him it was okay. Don’t you get it? I’ll model for you in his next painting. That’s what you’ve always wanted, right?”

Antonio was frantic. His hands completely left Lovino’s sides and flew to his head: clawing at the skin of his scalp and pulling his long, dark curls back and forth.

“Lovino, Lovino, Lovino,” he begged, and now his voice slurred. He must be very drunk then. “Please say no.”

Lovino rubbed at his eyes tiredly, because _he’d already said yes._ The new client was wealthy, prestigious, and more reputable than the family Vargas. “What can you do if I already told Edelstein, I’d do it?” Lovino pressed.

Antonio paused. “I’ll cut him off as my patron.”

“Antonio,” he said, sighing. “Don’t be stupid. Just do it. Afterall, he is your client. What’s the big deal?”

Antonio stomped a few steps away, keeping his hands on his head. The he looked over his shoulder and glared. “Lovino, sometimes you drive me fucking insane.” He walked back and spread his hands wide. “I beg you _for years_ to be my model, and now when I ask you not to, you want to do it?! Are you doing this just to drive me crazy?”

Lovino shrank against the wall and took rapid breaths. Somehow, he managed to find enough courage to yell back. “It’s not like I want to do it! But what the hell was I supposed to do? My grandpa’s telling me to be nicer to patrons. Your cardinal waltzes in when I’m working and randomly blurts that he wants me in his next painting. It’s not like I can turn him down! He’s a fucking cardinal!”

“I don’t believe what I’m hearing.” Antonio’s laugh was crazed. “Since when did you start caring that he was a cardinal? I thought you would’ve flipped him off and told him no!”

“When I was _sixteen,_ yes,” Lovino replied, voice loud and tense. “But I can’t do that anymore! What if I need him as my patron too? Or what if he helps me find a patron?”

Antonio gripped his shoulders hard. “You do _not_ want him as a patron.”

“I,” Lovino breathed, feeling his heart hammer against his chest. “I’m not saying I want him! But I don’t have the fucking luxury of choosing who I work for, you know.”

Antonio eyes bore into him for _seconds_ before he turned away and declared, “fine, then I’m cutting him off as my patron.”

Lovino clenched his fists, and his cheeks were red. “It’s a damn painting Antonio! Don’t leave a cardinal’s patronage because you’re too lazy to do it.”

Like a flash of lightning, Antonio’s glare was on him again. Frustration, agony, and something else more mysterious swirled in his eyes, and a dark and bitter grin spread across his lips. “You really have no idea, do you?”

Lovino couldn’t move, his breath came shallow and not enough. “No idea about what?”

Antonio was closer. Too close. _Far too close._ Lovino could smell the wine and paint.

“Edelstein wants you.”

Wind rushed over Lovino’s face, and he kept very still. Quietly, he asked, “what do you mean?”

“I mean,” Antonio purred dangerously in his ear. “He wants you _sexually.”_

Lovino’s hand flew to his lips before he could gasp. He didn’t want Antonio this close to him. He didn’t want Antonio to hear his heartbeat. “Why would,” he asked shakily. “Why would he commission a painting then?” Antonio pulled away to look at him. “I don’t understand,” Lovino admitted.

Finally, Antonio’s expression seemed to soften. But it was almost like he pitied Lovino now. His hands delicately swept hair away from Lovino’s eyes, and he spoke slowly. “You know how men like to keep paintings of women in their study, so only they can see them? And enjoy them? This is the same.”

“Oh,” Lovino murmured, eyes looking to the ground. He felt embarrassed. Like a child. These sorts of things…he didn’t know about them. He didn’t know what to make of them. They were things Lovino never thought about, and never wanted to think about. His skin was flushed, and his palms were sweating. He didn’t want to care. Caring would make it too real, and Lovino didn’t want that. “It is just a painting though,” he said weakly. “It doesn’t really matter.”

“It matters to me.”

Lovino looked at Antonio, stared deep into his eyes, and an unknown force beckoned him to ask, “but why?” Antonio’s hand stayed on Lovino’s face, cupping his cheek, feeling his skin. He was so near, and so grave. More fierce and determined than Lovino had ever seen him.

“Because I love you,” he said.

Lovino’s face was open, surprised, curious. He felt more and more like he needed to run away. “But I thought,” his voice trailed and he had to close his eyes. “I thought we were friends.” Friends. Lovino’s only friend. And yet, even he had a feeling that the word didn’t quite fit. It was just the only word he could use.

“We are,” Antonio replied carefully. “But that was never what I wanted to be.”

Lovino wanted to shrink away further, press his back into the stone wall until no one could reach him. “Never?” he repeated, his voice breaking. “Even when we first met, you…”

“It wasn’t love at first, I admit. But I always wanted you, from the moment I saw you. And as we got to know each other, then I fell in love.”

How can Antonio say things like this? So simply, so steadfast? Wasn’t he afraid to admit it? And why was he saying them to Lovino?

 _It made no sense, it made no sense:_ Lovino’s thoughts were a mantra.

Except he kept remembering now! Everything that had transpired between them. Whenever they touched, whenever Antonio looked at him with those eyes, when Antonio acted as though was ready to tear the world apart from protectiveness. Lovino’s eyes burned because maybe it was obvious. And tears streamed down his face, because maybe he should have known. And sobs wracked his body, because now all of those strange feelings he felt around Antonio were _terrifying_ to him. His knees went weak, and he had no idea how he was still standing until he realized Antonio was holding him up and he was talking to Lovino, frantically trying to get him to calm down.

But how could he calm down. His whole world, the world he made for himself, had been torn apart and he was suddenly thrust into one he didn’t know the plans to.

“Lovino,” Antonio said to him, his voice now confused and dire. “Talk to me, please! I don’t understand—are you scared of me? Are you…worried? Or angry? Please. Just talk to me.” His hands brushed hair that was sticking to Lovino’s tears. “Please, Lovino.”

“I just,” Lovino cried, slamming his hands to his eyes. He tried to will the tears to stop, but they wouldn’t. “I don’t know, I’m so— _so confused.”_ He pulled his arms up further, until his face was hidden behind them. “I’m sorry,” he bawled. “I don’t know w-why I can’t stop crying. I’m sorry.”

Antonio let out a short breathy laugh. It sounded like relief. “You’re apologizing to me?” he jeered lightly, still tense. Between sobs, Lovino could hear Antonio sigh. Then strong arms wrapped around Lovino once more, and held kept him against Antonio’s chest. “I’m the one who should be sorry. I know this isn’t something you wanted to hear.”

 _That’s not it!_ Lovino screamed in head. He just didn’t know how it was possible he was hearing it.

It felt as though he cried for ages. And a small part of him was thankful Antonio was holding him because at least his sobs were muffled by his shirt. Perhaps Feliciano could still hear him, he didn’t know. But he pretended no one could.

Slowly, as the church bells ran eleven times, Lovino stopped crying. Well, less that he stopped, and more that he couldn’t cry any longer. Now he was just breathing against Antonio’s chest, listening to his heartbeat.

“What a burden it is to be an emotional artist, isn’t it?” Antonio said playfully. His laugh stirred Lovino and he awkwardly jerked himself away from Antonio’s touch.

Lovino tried looking him in the eye, but the twinkle of green made his skin burn, and he swiftly returned to staring at the ground.

“I think,” he began, and it scared him how Antonio’s body straightened at the sound of his voice. It scared him to see how eagerly Antonio waited for him, in every sense. “I think I’m going to go back inside,” he finished quietly.

There was a pause. “Okay,” Antonio finally said. It sounded like _permission._ “But you have to make a promise to me before you go.” And then it was a curse.

“Fine,” Lovino mumbled, and he crossed his arms over his chest. He needed an extra wall between them.

“You have to look at me first,” Antonio commanded, his tone forceful.

Lovino grit his teeth, and tentatively raised his eyes. If Antonio was anxious a moment before, he wasn’t now. He held Lovino’s attention with power, by the sheer force of his passion.

“I know emotions scare you. I’ve known you long enough to see that,” Antonio said. “But you have to promise me that you won’t run away from me. Whether what you feel is the same or not, I don’t want you to cut me out of your life just because it may be easier.” He let his words hang in the silence of the night air.

They strangled Lovino. But somehow he managed to keep his gaze on Antonio and choke back a weak reply. “I promise.”

Antonio stepped forward and caught Lovino’s hands before he could step back. He held tight, almost relentless. Then unexpectedly, a smile appeared on his lips, and it was amorous.

“I love you, Lovino,” he said again, voice low, and leaned close to kiss both of Lovino’s cheeks. Antonio's gaze wandered Lovino’s face, and whatever he found appeared to please him, because his eyes were _dancing._ “Good night.” He let go of Lovino’s hands, and quietly, calmly disappeared down the street, until he was just another shadow in the darkness.

Lovino grasped at his chest. Wasn’t his heart tired of beating?

 

* * *

 

Lovino couldn’t look at Feliciano that night, or his grandfather in the morning. He had no appetite at lunch, and was quiet at dinner. It dawned on him finally the next night that Edelstein still expected him to model for Antonio, and that Antonio seemed determined to leave his patronage.

It’s not as though Antonio needed Edelstein particularly. Antonio’s name was popular enough on its own now. But, a cardinal’s patronage was also not something an artist could give up easily, no matter what Antonio said.

Lovino wondered if he would actually catch up to Antonio one day. Antonio loved him, but Lovino couldn’t help but feel that Antonio was still so out of reach. Lovino envied him. He envied the confidence, the skill, the fame. Why would Antonio love someone like Lovino? He was so small. Just an assisting painter.

Lovino brought his pillow over his eyes. He didn’t want to run away from Antonio. He wasn’t going to, even though he felt so conflicted. But now, the commission, and the move to another country…it was beginning to make more sense. For both of them.

 

* * *

 

 

October, 1598

Lovino stood outside Antonio’s studio for about an hour. Actually, he wasn’t standing, he was pacing. And fidgeting. And cursing. He was an all around _mess._ Once people began to give him suspicious glances, Lovino finally figured he couldn’t keep acting like a fool, and hesitantly, he walked to the studio’s doorstep. It was always open, so he didn’t bother knocking, and he entered in deft motions, trying his best to be quiet so that he could predict the mood of the room before he jumped into it.

Gilbert was laughing, and his laugh carried far. And there were other murmurs, one Ludwig’s and one Antonio. They sounded like they were in good humor. That was good.

What was not good was walking into the studio room and noticing the entire space shut up at the sight of his face. Heat rushed to Lovino’s cheeks, and he hadn’t been here for five minutes yet. God dammit.

They all stared at him, but not all in the same way. Ludwig was mildly surprised, but not too caring. Gilbert, however, stared at him in open curiosity, and it hit Lovino like a brick in the face that he probably knew about everything this entire time. That was why he acted so fucking weird all the time. And Antonio stared at him so…so _happily._ But still just as bold as the other night.

They were all waiting for him to say something, and Lovino raised his chin, because he’d already rehearsed this and he _had_ to do it.

“What the hell are you guys looking at?” he said, staring down Gilbert and Ludwig with as much strength as he could muster. Ludwig turned away with a sigh, but Gilbert had the audacity to smile.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Gilbert jeered, and he grabbed a paintbrush casually. “How’s the fresco going?”

“Fine,” Lovino deadpanned, and he directed his attention to Antonio. “You,” he pointed. “Come with me. I need to talk to you about something.”

Antonio leaped out of his stool on command, paint and brushes completely forgotten, and was looming by Lovino’s side in a second. He didn’t say anything, but the grin and sparkling eyes were enough.

Lovino turned on his heel. “Let’s go,” he said, not wanting to look for too long.

“Have a good time!” Gilbert called after them, laughing again.

“What is this about?” Antonio asked eagerly. Too eagerly.

Lovino pressed his lips together and led the way into the street. “Let’s find a place to talk alone first,” he replied carefully.

“Ah, that’s easy enough,” Antonio flashed him a smile, and pulled Lovino’s hand the other way. Lovino snatched it back to his chest almost immediately, but Antonio’s smile didn’t falter, and he made a trail through the crowd and away from the bustle of Piazza Navona to a smaller street. It was residential, and Lovino spotted some older women setting out laundry above them, but aside from that, it was calm and empty. Antonio sat on a house’s doorsteps and patted the spot next to him for Lovino to sit. “This is as quiet as you’re going to find around here. But we’re not completely alone, so don’t get too carried away.”

He was teasing. Trying to pull a reaction from Lovino that would please him.

Lovino did blush, but he also frowned and clasped his hands together. He was nervous. He was so fucking nervous.

“Lovino?” Antonio prompted, slightly concerned. “Is everything okay?”

Lovino pressed his lips together and glanced to the side. “Have you heard from the cardinal?” he asked lightly.

Antonio’s shoulders stiffened, but his voice was smoother. “I haven’t,” he said. “I think he may have forgotten. Or lost interest. That’s what I’m hoping.”

Lovino dug his nails into his palm. “Actually, it’s because of something I, um, told him.”

“You _talked_ to him?” Antonio demanded, hand swiftly on Lovino’s arm. “Alone? Did he approach you? What happened?”

Lovino tried to laugh, but it sounded too much like shaky breathing. “Nothing happened,” he replied. “I just told him I had to move for a commission, and he…dropped it. So it’s good. Everything’s fine.”

Antonio’s fingers dug into the fabric of Lovino’s shirt, urging him to turn. His eyes hard and fiery once again. “What commission?”

“I mentioned it once, a while ago...”

Antonio swiftly cut him off. “No you didn’t.”

Lovino furrowed his brows. “Yeah, well I _tried_ to, but then you started flipping out about my cheek, so we didn’t exactly get into it.”

Antonio’s eyes were hard and narrow. “Where would you be moving to?”

Lovino sighed. “Spain.”

 _“Spain?!_ Why the hell do you have to do a commission in _Spain?”_ he bellowed, and the older women standing on balconies gave them disapproving glances.

“Will you keep your fucking voice down?” Lovino quipped, and he tried to pry Antonio’s grip off of his arm, but it was too strong. He continued hastily, “yeah, Spain. Cardinal Farnese recommended me for a fresco there, and it’s not just a commission. It’s also a bit of a study thing. He wants me to meet artists there. I don’t know. See the sights and shit. But I’ve been thinking about it for months, and it just makes sense. I’m going.”

Antonio leaned closer, furious and desperate. “But why does it make sense? Are you trying to run as far away as you can from me?”

That ticked Lovino off, and he matched heated eyes with Antonio. “Don’t just automatically assume things! Not everything I do is about you! But it does make sense for me. I’m _stuck_ here. I’m under my grandfather’s shadow. My brother’s shadow. And yours too,” he waved his hand. “I can’t become a great artist like this. I need to get out of this goddamn bubble for at least a second so I can do something on my own.”

“Then quit working for your grandfather! Work for me. Don’t move to Spain!” Antonio shouted.

“Do you hear what you’re saying right now? _This_ is the problem! I’m not going to fucking work for you, Antonio. I want to _match_ you,” he explained, his body tense in frustration.

“Match me?” Antonio repeated. He was surprised. As if the thought had never dawned on him before.

Lovino shoved his hand against Antonio’s chest, pushing him back. “See what I mean? You don’t even see me as a painter. Not really. At this rate I’m never going to rival you.”

Antonio raised a brow, shifting closer again. This was news to him. The fact that this was all such a blow to him just solidified Lovino’s resolve even more. He had to do this. His whole life he wanted only to be a great artist. Just because Antonio wants him to stay, and just because Lovino may want to stay too, doesn’t mean he should.

Antonio turned away, tormented on what to say next. He took a deep breath. “How long would you be gone for?”

Lovino didn’t know really. “At least a year, I think,” he said gently. If he was honest, it was probably going to be two, maybe even three. But he wasn’t courageous enough to even broach that possibility to Antonio.

Antonio sighed and wiped his hand across his face.

“Um,” Lovino blurted, drawing his attention again. “You’re Spanish, aren’t you? I know you never mentioned it, but your last name…have you ever been to Spain before?”

Antonio turned to him, and his smile was melancholy. “I am Spanish, but I’ve never been. Italy has always been home. I don’t think I could bear to leave. I love it too much.” He waited a few moments. “Maybe I can visit you though.”

Lovino laughed, because he knew that was a lie. Antonio had no time to leave Rome, much less go to _Spain_. He was so popular. And his reputation was still growing.

“A year in Spain,” Antonio mused, and he looked up to the sky. “Not sure what I’m going to do without you.”

“You’re going to paint, of course,” Lovino rolled his eyes and tried to ignore the weight on his heart. “Just try not to get into too many fights. And stop drinking so much.”

Antonio chuckled. “Well, I can promise that if you make me another promise,” he said, and his hands caught Lovino’s hands once more. Holding them gingerly, reverently. Antonio looked at them as though he was trying to memorize each line on his skin.

“You and your damn promises,” Lovino muttered quietly.

“Well,” Antonio grinned, lifting his head above Lovino’s once more. His hair shined a rustic brown under the sun. “If I don’t make you promise, then I can’t let you leave.”

Lovino pursed his lips in nervous impatience.

Antonio leaned closer, so much closer, until he was whispering tenderly in Lovino’s ear. “Promise me you’ll come back to me,” he said. “You must promise me you’ll come back.”

Lovino’s breath hitched, and he had to turn his face away. Antonio then hugged him, nesting his tan face on Lovino’s neck, and holding his head in steady hands only an artist could have.

Lovino’s voice was meek, but not unsure. “Of course I will,” he murmured. Antonio pulled away and looked at him hopefully, _pleadingly._ A mischievous smile spread across Lovino’s face. “I have to come back to be your rival, you know.”

It wasn’t what Antonio wanted to hear, but it still made him laugh. And he embraced Lovino again. This time closer. “I love you, Lovino. I will always love you.”  

If he was waiting for a reply, he never received one. Lovino stayed quiet and kept his nose in Antonio’s hair, savoring the scent of linseed oil and last night’s wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! The next chapter may take a little longer, but hopefully not too long.
> 
> Please comment :)


	6. Di Sotto in Sù

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you pay attention to history, or are an art history major (like yours truly), be aware that I know I'm skewing the timeline! But compromises had to be made, and it's a story about art, so creative liberty feels justified?!
> 
> Also, Lovino's character, which I had originally based around two people, has now expanded to an amalgam of several artists of the era. So...don't worry about it. It fits into the story, so there shouldn't be any problems. As long as my foundation is fact than I can do whatever I want with the rest, right?! Is that how writing works?

_Di sotto in sù: in Italian means “seen from below” or “from below, upward” is an art technique, developed during the Quattrocento period of the Renaissance and popularized during the Baroque period. It uses_ _foreshortened figures and an_ _architectural vanishing point_ _to create the perception of true space on a painted, most-often frescoed, ceiling above the viewer._

 

Rome, Italy

January, 1599

 

* * *

 

Lovino was gone, and when he left, any of the little calmness, or peace, that slept in Antonio’s heart sailed away too. Most people would fall sad, deep into melancholy or depression, but Antonio reacted differently. If he didn’t get his feelings out, he thought he would combust or drown—either way a cruel fate. So he had to break his promises to Lovino. Of course, he said them knowing they wouldn’t hold true. Antonio was no gentleman, so he felt as though he could not in good faith be held accountable for his faults. Because they were obvious after all. One just had to read the many, many Roman police reports.  

Antonio kept drinking heavily. At first, it was just his days off, or when he was ahead of schedule. But eventually, he was drinking most days. And brawls…well brawls were compliments to a bottle of wine, so it was hard to avoid them. Antonio gained new scars, but they didn’t hurt, even when they happened. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could compare to the ache of missing Lovino. So when a dagger cut across his skin, opened him up and let his blood pour, Antonio laughed because truly, he couldn’t even _feel_ it.

Emotions always cut deeper than wounds. Why hadn’t people learned that yet?

 

* * *

 

 March, 1599

For a while, Antonio and Lovino exchanged letters. They were never current, because neither of them were good at keeping up contact this way, but they tried.

_Antonio,_

_Spain is you. I don’t know if this will make sense to you reading this, but honestly, every part of Spain - Madrid really - is where you truly belong. It’s like Rome, only more vivacious. You’d feel just at home. And the people. They are so like you. I don’t know what the fuck you’ve been doing with your life, but if you ever thought going to Spain was a waste of time, you’re a fucking idiot. This is your home._

_I’m working in the Spanish Royal court, and what a sight it is. If you thought Roman patrons were needy, try testing these guys out. They request a royal portrait every time the guy I’m working with blinks._

_It’s nice here though. Different than Rome. Freer. I don’t know if it’s just because I don’t know anyone, or because the attitude is different.  I feel liberated._

_Anyway, my letters are boring. Tell me about your life already._

_Your friend,_

_Lovino_

Always, forever and always, Lovino signed his name that way. Antonio would laugh except he hated it too much. But as long as Lovino sent letters, he tried to respond.

_Dear Lovino,_

_I desperately wish I could visit you in Spain. I hope you know I want it so. But commissions keep piling, and it seems as though the workload will never cease here. I hope you aren’t in as much anguish in Spain._

_My parents were from Madrid… I’m curious about it now. Please send sketches. I hear it’s very palatial. I hope I can see it someday._

_The Spanish royal court! What an experience that must be. I can’t even imagine. If they’re anything like me though, try to stay clear of them while they’re drinking._

_Gilbert and Ludwig send their hellos. I’m sure Feliciano sends his love._

_I hope you continue to remember me._

_With love and passion,_

_Antonio_

May, 1599

Lovino sent letters back, filled with drawings of Spanish architecture. One letter, one of their last ones said:

_Antonio,_

_Keep an eye on Feliciano. Without me there, I don’t think grandpa can handle his sensitivity, and it seems like he’s under more and more stress these days. He likes you anyway, so become friends with him._

_He tells me that he and Ludwig have gotten close. I don’t know what that’s about, but watch it too. Feliciano is too damn naive to make rash decisions about anything. (If you’re thinking I’m sounding like my grandfather, shut up now because I’m fully aware of that being true.)_

_The Spanish court is good. Exciting really. It’s honestly your paradise. People live only off of wine and good food, and sleep far too late. I’m treated much too nicely, but they don’t seem to mind._

_I’m going to travel soon with the master I’m working with, see the sights of Barcelona and the south. Do you have any sketch or item requests? Please let me know._

_Stop drinking so much. Don’t think that Feliciano doesn’t keep me updated. I heard about your last stunt with the police. Cool it off. Don’t make me come home early just to find you in jail. A death by noose is far to clichè for you. You are a painter after all. Be original. Be better._

_Your friend,_

_Lovino_

Antonio might have been too late in responding, because after he did, it was months before Lovino sent a reply. And after that, their contact dissipated altogether. They were never ones for words though, were they? So Antonio shouldn’t have been too surprised. But surprise had no way of easing the disappointment of missed contact. It only made it far too obvious.

He fought. He fought hard. His dagger always won in the end. But how many scars was he to accumulate on the way? He often didn’t know what he was fighting for: lost pride or for something less tangible, perhaps not even there?

It wasn’t until someone drove a dagger directly into his chest, that he felt the need to slow down. But whilst the dagger lay there - protruding, violent, and odd -  Antonio finally remembered his promise to Lovino. He may have been bleeding. Gilbert may have been lying in front of him in a horrid fuss. But no matter what, no matter what, as long as there was still breath in his body, Antonio must find a way to live on. He must. For the sake of Lovino. No one else mattered in the long run. Antonio’s paintings were important, but love? Love. Love,was the end all be all for him.

Because how often was one blessed with love during a lifetime? For Antonio it was singular and Lovino was IT. He had to keep pressing on, in whatever fashion, anxiously waiting always for his return.

 

* * *

 

February, 1600

 Antonio had a new patron now, and his name was Francis Bonnefoy.

For most of his life, Antonio had been ridiculed, and all of his ambitions squandered with the constant words No, No, No, No, _No._ Only when he moved to Rome had things changed for him and he cultivated a popularity for his paintings, and mystique of his character. So as years passed, he became almost annoyed with the pestering and the ogling and the constant requests. It took time, but it finally dawned on him that there was no romantic freedom in being an artist so long as you required the patronage and support of someone else.

So when Francis waltzed into his life, parading his wealth, his glory, and power, Antonio was more than skeptical. In fact, he was completely put off by it. It reminded him of the cardinal, and that thought made his blood boil.

But Francis…had a way about him. He appeared like an apparition one day when Antonio was working, fluttering across the room, trailed by attentive servants, and dazzling everyone with his fine clothes and bright smile.

He laughed so easily and talked like nothing was impossible. Antonio hated it. He hated it until he realized Francis meant every word to Antonio, and kept every promise. No one in his life before had ever wooed him, and the absurd excess of it all made him laugh. He laughed so much with Francis. It was more than a patron and artist relationship: they were friends.

“Antonio, my darling!” Francis cooed. He sacheted into their studio just the same each time. Eyes alight and blue, blond hair twinkling like spun gold, and a voice as sweet as honey.

At this point, Antonio and Francis had a routine they liked to play out. One of their many, many games.

Antonio abandoned his stool, and rushed forward. He bowed reverently. “Francis, my prince,” Antonio replied, and he made a show of kissing Francis’s hand. “How can I be of service?”

Francis’s laugh was like a melody. More beautiful than church bells, but just as prompt. “Someone has broken my heart,” he said dramatically, free hand clutching his chest. “I need you to fight for my honor.”

Antonio rose to his feet and unsheathed his dagger. “I will do so posthaste! Tell me their names and I will avenge you!” His grin was so wide. He adored these theatrics.

“I’m afraid it might be a challenge for you though,” Francis sighed. His hands, adorned by beautiful rings, pointed languidly to the other side of the room. “For you will be fighting your best friend.”

“Oh dear,” Antonio echoed, and he looked to Gilbert and Ludwig. Both of them were watching: Gilbert in curious humor, and Ludwig in utter confusion. “You are asking me to do the impossible. But for you, I suppose I must.”

“I know, I know,” Francis held his head. “Brother against brother. This is what our world has come to. What a tragedy! And to think…this all could have been avoided if Gilbert had just said yes to our dinner plans.”

“What?” Gilbert shouted, but his smile was still there.

“Oh, Gilbert. How could you?” Antonio lamented.

“You never invited me to dinner. What drama have you guys invented for yourselves now?”

“Oh, so you will come!” Francis exclaimed, and he grabbed Antonio’s shoulder affectionately. “Antonio, my darling, you will not have to fight after all! My heart has been restored!”

Antonio clasped his hands together and looked up. “Thank you, our beautiful lord.”

“What the hell are you guys going on about?” Gilbert laughed again. His red eyes danced. “If you wanted me to go to dinner with you guys, why don’t you ask like normal people?”

“Ah, but how boring would that be?” Francis said smoothly. “Life is already so drear, we have to liven it up somehow, right?"

Francis might have been the most sociable person Antonio had ever met. And it came so easily to him too. He won Antonio’s affections, and then Gilbert. Elizaveta and Feliciano adored him. Even Ludwig came around in a way—meaning he wasn’t _as_ displeased when Francis walked through the door anymore.

Antonio wondered if maybe Francis was lonely. Perhaps that was why he was so extravagant in his friendships. Why else would he parade Antonio and Gilbert to such nice cuisine, or invite them to his little palace in Rome, or host such grand parties week after week? And if he was lonely, he was an excellent actor. Because never for a moment did Francis’s prowess as host and master dim amongst a crowd; he was always the leader, the light, the warm center in any room. He gave Antonio joy and Gilbert freedom. He gave Elizaveta compliments, Feliciano courage, and Ludwig his peace. Francis gave everything all of the time.

 

* * *

 

April, 1600 

Against all odds and possibility, Antonio still managed to go out every night. He had two long-term patrons and enough church commissions to write a book, but he _had_ to leave at night. At least for a few hours. If that meant he couldn’t sleep, then so be it. Antonio had to keep moving, keep doing. He realized last year that if he stayed still for too long he’d miss Lovino, and with no contact and the second year apart well underway, Antonio wanted very much to avoid such a dark cavern of thought.

Francis always welcomed him with open arms. He had so many parties, and Antonio was perpetually invited. He could never say no. Antonio felt more secure in Francis’s grand house, among people he’d become friends with. And maybe Francis knew that his home was a far safer place than the drunk and violent streets of Rome; maybe that was why he had more parties than anyone ever should.

Tonight’s gathering was an intimate affair. Just Gilbert, Elizaveta, and Antonio kept Francis company, but Francis always planned for at least twenty, and the four of them stayed at the dining room table all night, picking delicately at their nine-course meal.

“You know Francis, I’m very surprised you aren’t married,” Elizaveta commented. She sat pretty in her long blue gown, and it shined under candlelight. “Women fall over you all the time. How is it you’re still a bachelor?”

“It’s tragic, isn’t it?” Francis mourned and raised his champagne. _Tragic_ was Francis’s favorite word. “I have so much love to give, it cannot be contained in a marriage. For that reason, I must be free and alone for all of my life.”

It was odd, Antonio agreed. Sometimes he wondered what Francis’s preferences were, and if he was like Antonio. But Francis’s personality was so affectionate with everyone, it made it hard to decipher what was flirtatious or friendly.

Gilbert waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t believe that, man. One you day you’ll find someone and _BAM_ —that’ll be it. Right Eliza,” Gilbert looked to her confidently, with sparkling eyes.

Elizaveta pursed her lips mischievously and looked away. “Hm, that definitely happens with some people. Not everyone though.” The conversation dissipated as everyone took bites of more cheese and bread. “Oh, I forgot to say,” Elizaveta blurted, and glanced to Antonio. “I received a letter from a friend of mine. She lives in the Spanish court. She talked about Lovino quite a lot.”

Antonio, who had slowly drifted away from all of the talk, now turned to her shocked, open, and _pleading_. Just the sound of that name, those three unique syllables, made Antonio full with adrenaline, longing, and so much aching love.

“You heard about him? What did she say? Is he coming back?” Antonio asked quickly. Too quickly even, as he soon felt Francis’s watchful eyes on his face. Gilbert stiffened, but said nothing and continued to eat.

Unexpectedly, a _blush_ tinted Elizaveta’s cheeks before she could reply. “Well, she didn’t mention anything about his return to Rome.” She paused, catching her breath. “But she did say that he was doing very well! He’s quite popular in Spain.”

“Popular?” Antonio repeated. A few different emotions swam in his veins. He felt ashamed for once again being surprised that Lovino was succeeding. He didn’t see Lovino as an artist. He had to admit that once Lovino said his goodbyes. But aside from that, Elizaveta’s words—they were so peculiar. So guarded. They offered almost nothing, and teased at everything.

But Elizaveta, in a subtle way, tried to make amends. “Yes, I think the Spanish quite like him! My friend said that he is requested day after day to work for them. There is a master he is associated with, but he is very much an independent there. She writes that he is quite happy.”

Antonio never believed he was a good or honorable man, but even he hated how jealous those words made him feel. He couldn’t help but detest the very thought of Lovino being happy without him, so far away from him, in a foreign country where he knew no one. If nothing else did, this surely solidified Antonio’s reputation as a horrible man.

“I see,” he said bitterly. It was hard to even mask those words. He didn’t care not to.

Elizaveta let the topic die there. She did not offer more information, and Antonio in truth did not want to hear any of it.

Slowly, the party dispersed until it was just Francis and Antonio. They were always the lingering ones. The two that drank until far too late, time and time again.

Now they were settled on a couch, and they sat very close to one another. Francis leaned in and admired Antonio’s face.

“Antonio,” he began gently. His tone was cautious. Unsteady. “Who is Lovino?"

Antonio was far to drunk to care about propriety. And he had a feeling that Francis was not so judgmental as the rest of the world. Still though, he was careful in his reply. “He is a close friend of mine. He moved to Spain to paint.”

“Oh,” Francis breathed, and he turned away to drink more champagne. His lips didn’t touch the glass before he added, “is he your lover?”

Antonio blinked. Lover. How he deeply wished for that word to be true. But it was wrong of him to yearn for it, and it was wrong for him to think that he was in any way close to it being attainable.

“He’s not,” Antonio replied shortly. His hands grasped the stem of his glass, and he gulped down wine like it was medicine.

Francis swirled his glass, and murmured, “I see.” It was quiet. They both were. Delicately, Francis spoke once more. “If his name is Lovino Vargas, I’ve actually heard of him too.”

Antonio straightened. Since when did Lovino’s name become so well known?

“Yes, like Elizaveta said, he’s quite popular. The people I know in Spain talk of him often. He has a good reputation.” His lips lingered on the rim of his glass without drinking. “As far as I know, he’s a rather good painter.”

Unlike Elizaveta’s comments, what Francis said, what he told Antonio, it set his heart free. Because thank god. Thank GOD. All that Lovino ever wanted was to be a great painter, Antonio knew that, because Lovino admitted it time and time again. And a good reputation? That would carry him far. For some reason Antonio had the worst reputation and was still making a living off of it.

Antonio was laughing. He set his glass on a table and held his head in his hands. He kept laughing.

“Antonio?” Francis prompted. His voice was light and curious. “What is it?”

 _What is it?_ For the first time in a year, Antonio was relieved. It was as though someone had splashed him with cold water. Thank goodness. Thank fucking goodness. Lovino was popular, Lovino had a good reputation, Lovino was doing well. Because that was what Lovino wanted, and Antonio figured that if Lovino got what he wanted, one day, and maybe one day soon, he would come back to Antonio.

His heart beat and his breath heaved. Francis looked over him with so much caution.

Antonio was relieved. _So fucking relieved_. Once Lovino got what he wanted, what Antonio didn’t fully comprehend, he would come back. He had to return to Rome one day. He did. Because Rome was his home. Rome may adore Antonio for the moment, but Rome was Lovino’s home, and certainly, in the crevices of Lovino’s heart, he knew that as well.

Antonio waited for him.

 

* * *

 

 _Dear Lovino,_  

_I haven’t heard from you in a while, but people tell me you are doing well. What are you doing these days? Still in the Spanish court? I hope you’re not lonely._

_I don’t know if Feliciano has told you, but I have a new patron now. He’s French and flamboyant—you’ll probably hate him, but he is wonderful all the same. I hope you are able to meet him soon._

_Everyone sends you their love. Me most of all._

_One last question: do you know when you’ll be returning home?_

_With love and passion,_

_Antonio_

 

* * *

 

May, 1600

Each day, Antonio was the first to enter his studio, and the last to leave. He had no time to squander, and the ability to paint was godsend from a god he didn’t know he believed in—he couldn’t bear to waste it all the same.

Like many things, Francis was swift to pick up on Antonio’s schedule. Often he came at the end of his days, but occasionally he came before. He adored Gilbert, and the two of them got along in a fabulous way, but Francis still liked to find Antonio alone sometimes.

Unlike the night, or the late afternoons, Francis swept into the morning studio much more melancholy and sentimental.

“Antonio, my darling,” he called with a small wave. He swiftly caught an extra stool and brought it forward, signaling it was not one of their games this time. “I hope you do not mind my intrusion.”

Antonio smiled easily. “Of course. You’re always welcome.” This moment, he was painting another commission for the cardinal, but Francis still seemed to find that interesting, and remained for quite some time, watching Antonio’s brush fly and linger about the canvas. And he was quiet. Eerily quiet. It took him an hour to say something more.

“You know, Antonio,” Francis began, his voice laden in nostalgia. “I am your patron, so if I’m being too forward, I am very sorry. And of course, you’re free not to answer if you don’t want to. But I must ask if Lovino is someone more important to you?”

Antonio paused. His teeth and tongue sought his lips automatically, yearning for a habit to calm himself. At the very least, Antonio could comfort himself. He wasn’t sure how to answer. Honestly? Lying? Did he trust Francis that much? How much?

“You must relax,” Francis laughed, catching his attention once again. “I don’t mean to be inquiring. I was only curious.”

Somehow, by some foreign power, Antonio managed to laugh. It sounded too breathy. “No, no,” he replied. “I don’t mind. It’s just that—he isn’t. But I want him to be.”

Francis didn’t take long to sit back and sigh. “Ah, I see,” he murmured. “Sounds rather difficult.”

Difficult was an understatement. Antonio wished Francis used his usual word tragic. That would’ve been more accurate.

“I’ve been in love with men too. But that type of romantic relationship is hard for even someone like me to manage,” he confessed gently.

Antonio turned to him, less surprised and more comforted. So Francis did understand, could understand, his torment. Gilbert may try to cheer him in his own way, but he couldn’t possibly comprehend. Not really. So it was new for Antonio to come across a person, actually _a friend_ , that recognized the sheer weight of having deep feelings for other men in a world that fights against it.

“Yeah,” Antonio sighed. He resumed painting. “It’s definitely not easy.”

A twinkle sparked in Francis’s eye and he smiled more genuinely. “Ah, but things that are not easy are always the one’s worth having.”

Antonio grinned. His heart pumped in determination. Steadfast, more and more, like the drum before a marching army.

“You’re right, Francis. You’re absolutely right.”

A whispy laugh. “I usually am.”

 

* * *

 

July, 1600

_Antonio,_

_Watch over Feli. He seems to be growing more and more anxious every time I hear from him. I don’t exactly know what’s going on, but just watch over him. You owe me._

_I’ll be back at some point._

_Your friend,_

_Lovino_

 

* * *

 

October, 1600

“Ludwig’s been acting fucking weird,” Gilbert complained one morning. He and Antonio were walking away from mass. They had to go at some point. It was Italy after all.

Antonio blinked. “Oh? He seems rather the same to me.”

“Yeah, but you guys don’t hang out that much. You just see him in the studio. He’s normal there.” Gilbert raised his arms and grabbed the back of his head with his hands. He groaned loudly. “He’s so damn cryptic! I have no clue what’s going on! It’s driving me insane.”

Antonio laughed and comforted his friend with a pat on the back. “Maybe you can ask Feliciano. They’re pretty close, right?”

It looked as though Gilbert was caught off guard. “They are?”

Antonio raised his brows and gave him a mocking smile. “Where have you been? They’re attached at the hip whenever I see them.”

“I thought he was joking!”

“About what?”

“Being _nice_ ,” Gilbert whined. His hands sought his eyes, rubbing them tiredly. “Dammit, I hope he’s not doing anything stupid.”

“Ludwig doesn’t seem very stupid to me. Hardheaded, yes,” Antonio said simply.

Gilbert pursed his lips, and his stare was heavy and firm to the ground. “When it comes to work, painting, money, and business, Ludwig’s very smart. But he’s an absolute moron if it comes to personal things. Friends, romance, you name it and he won’t know. Not really.”

Antonio laughed. Reminded him of Lovino somewhat. But only somewhat.

Then he remembered something. Lovino’s words, all of the memories of Feliciano and Ludwig together, veiled by darkness and highlighted by moonlight. It was more than being close. They stood by each other like they needed each other.

The shock must have made its way to Antonio’s face at some point, because Gilbert was quick to notice.

“Um.” How was Antonio supposed to phrase this exactly? “Does Ludwig like women?” Straight to the point then.

But Gilbert was so straightforward himself, that he was not so much as surprised by the sentence. If anything it was more like concerned. He sighed. “It’s like I said. He’s an absolute moron when it comes to personal things. I doubt he knows himself.”

“Yeah,” Antonio breathed. Did Lovino know something more? Was that why he asked of Feliciano so often? “The two of them are quite a pair though. Like sugar and spice.”

“Sugar and _bland_ is more accurate,” Gilbert corrected dryly. He couldn’t help but let his voice fall lower and more grave. He repeated his warning to the cobblestoned street. “I just hope he doesn’t do something stupid.”

Antonio silently hoped for the same. But he didn’t have much faith in things remaining as they were anymore.

 

* * *

 

February, 1601

Feliciano lived alone now, in a pretty little place in Prati, near to the Vatican. It was decorated with boxes of magenta flowers, and the cats Rafa and Angelo were his only company. It was always peaceful, but Antonio’s presence had a way of ripping any peace apart.

Antonio’s shouts shook the panes of the glass. Francis and Gilbert were restraining him from beating down the door. It was late at night, and he was drunk again, but Feliciano had recently returned from a visit to Spain, and Antonio had to see him. He had to know.

“Feliciano! FELICIANO! Get out here!”

Gilbert clamped onto his shoulders, keeping him still. “For god’s sake, Antonio! Calm the hell down.” But he also shouted along with him, “Feliciano get the fuck out here! Antonio is losing his shit!”

Francis walked around the bottom floor of the building, looking for any clues. “Ah, I see a light,” he said. Faint noises crept through the walls. “I think he’s coming.”

“Thank god,” Gilbert groaned, and he released Antonio from his grip. Antonio stumbled forward, flushed in anticipation, and his hands balled at his sides.

Slowly, the front door creaked open, and a very sleepy Feliciano poked his head outside. He was wearing a stained white shirt with billowy sleeves, and it was as disheveled as his brown hair. He rubbed his palm into his eyes, wiping some sleep away. “Hi guys, what are you doing here?” There was no spark or excitement in his greeting; he sounded exceptionally exhausted.

Francis hovered over him a little concerned. “Feliciano, did we interrupt your sleep? Oh my dear, I’m so sorry.” Without thinking, he began combing his fingers through Feliciano’s hair, trying to clean him up.

Feliciano managed a soft laugh. “No, it’s okay! I’ve been sleeping all day, ever since I got back, so it’s good that I’m up to finally eat something.”

“Ah, allow me to cook for you!” Francis proclaimed, and he let himself into the house.

“Man, Feli. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this tired. Spain must have been quite a trip then,” Gilbert jeered as he followed Francis’s steps.

Before Antonio went inside he swooped Feliciano in for a hug, his mood having shifted back to adoration. Feliciano was so gentle and slender. Antonio couldn’t help but be reminded a little of Lovino whenever he touched him. The difference was that as they’ve matured before Antonio’s eyes, Lovino grew stronger, and Feliciano, especially since Lovino’s been gone, seemed to be shrinking smaller and smaller. Like the art world of Rome was gradually draining his spirit.

“Feliciano! How I’ve missed you!” he exclaimed happily, trying to draw out a smile.

Feliciano giggled. His face had a little more color than before. “Oh, Toni. You’re so sweet! Come on, let’s go inside too. I’m so hungry. I wonder what Francis is making.”

In the kitchen was Gilbert bent over a chopping board, cutting tomatoes, and Francis close to his shoulder, watching him work in complete _fascination._ Feliciano and Antonio took seats at the dinner table and watched them.

“So apparently our French prince right here,” Gilbert gestured to Francis, a cocky grin on his face. “Has never cooked before.”

Antonio laughed and cupped his chin in his hand. “Ah, that explains so much.”

“But I’ve always wanted to learn!” Francis insisted. “I was never allowed in the kitchen as a child, but I love to eat so much and I assumed it couldn’t be hard, really.”

Gilbert rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, Feliciano. I’ll make something for ya. Just a caprese salad though, if that’s okay with you. There isn’t much food around here.”

“That’s fine! It was what I was going to make today anyway, but then I fell asleep.” Feliciano reached across the table for an orange and began peeling it. “Spain was so exhausting, you know? I think I’m still hungover from it all.”

Gilbert snickered. “Is it pretty wild over there? Wouldn’t have thought the Spanish court would be a fun place.”

“That’s where he works, but at night we’d go out on the town. And boy,” Feliciano dropped his head drowsily, “can the Spanish drink or what? And Lovino can match them. It was incredible.”

That struck Antonio by surprise. He thought Lovino was a fairly average drinker by nature, and could only be coerced into getting drunk when he hung out with him “How was he?” Antonio asked. He meant to be casual, but his tone still dripped in longing.

Feliciano brightened at the question, and Antonio hoped that was a good sign.

“He’s doing really well! Spain absolutely adores him. You wouldn’t believe it, but they fawn over him there. They all call him Romano, since he’s the only Roman there, and they go crazy for everything he does,” Feliciano laughed. “You know how Rome obsesses over you, Antonio? That’s kind of how it is for Lovino in Spain.” A blush warmed his cheeks and he looked away with a smile. “Except his reputation isn’t as a fighter or anything like that.”

Well, for one thing, Antonio wasn’t sure if comparing Spain loving Lovino to Rome loving him. Because it was a more complicated relationship between him and Rome. Rome wanted so much from him, it _revered_ his paintings, but it was also a place that drove Antonio insane. Rome was so damn complicated.

Aside from that, Antonio wondered what Lovino’s reputation was now.

He peered closely at Feliciano’s face. Gilbert and Francis exchanged glances.

“What _is_ Lovino’s reputation?” Antonio asked critically, his eyes growing ever darker.

“Ah,” Feliciano backed into his chair and laughed awkwardly. “Well...they all refer to him as a Latin lover.”

Antonio almost fell to the ground. Which emotion attacked his heart first he did not know: but shock, confusion, and jealousy pumped in his veins.

Gilbert on the other hand was guffawing over the cutting board. “What the hell? How does a brat like that become known as a Latin lover?”

“It’s actually not as strange as it sounds,” Feliciano defended, but his face was turning redder and redder. He snuck nervous glances at Antonio. “People love him so much there, and Lovino’s so much freer in Spain than Rome. I think it kind of swept him away. And he has so much more confidence too.”

“Jesus Christ,” Antonio moaned and he collapsed onto the table with his head in his hands. What did this mean? Was Lovino sleeping with men or women? Did he want to know? Was he really just Lovino’s friend after everything that happened?

Francis moved away from the table to caress Antonio’s hair, but he said nothing. Gilbert remained at the cutting board, eerily observant.

Feliciano was increasingly uneasy. But eventually, he spoke again. “You know, I actually think it’s kind of good for Lovino. As long as I’ve known him, he’s been afraid of love, but Spain has made him come out of his shell,” he paused. “Not that I think he’s really in love with anyone. It’s more like flirtatious. And maybe he’s also learned that he has to act if he wants patrons to like him, so that could be a part of it too. He’s very determined to become the greatest painter in Rome.”

Antonio looked up, wide-eyed and eager. “In Rome? So he still intends to come back then?”

Feliciano looked surprised at even the insinuation. “Why of course he’s going to come back! The first thing he asked me when I saw him was how you were doing. He even made me draw sketches of your most recent paintings. And he looked at them so seriously! The whole time I was there Lovino kept repeating that he was going to surpass you one day. It was his mantra. And he can’t beat you in Spain.”

Antonio’s laugh was manic, loud, and frustrated. He didn’t want to think about how Lovino was growing without him. He didn’t want to think that Lovino was kissing other people, or that they may be kissing him. He didn’t want to think of Lovino’s reputation, or all of those lost nights in Spain.

He only focused on the hopeful words that promised him _Lovino would come back._

And then heat flooded in his chest at the prospect of having a rival, and that rival being Lovino. Competition intertwined in passion. A duel between two artists.

Antonio grinned, and his eyes gleamed salaciously. He would win Lovino over yet. In every sense. Lovino’s art, his heart, _all of him._  

Lovino just had to come back to Rome.

 

* * *

 

June, 1601

_Dear Lovino,_

_I’ve sent you sketches of all my new paintings. Don’t you think they’re marvelous?_

_With love and passion,_  

_Antonio_

 

* * *

 

September, 1601

For months, Ludwig complained about Francis’s frequent visits. He said they were a disruption for their schedule, that he always stayed for hours, and the end result of each drop-in was that all of them fell behind schedule. Antonio didn’t care, and Gilbert laughed it off, but that didn’t halt Ludwig in his griping.

But then…almost like magic, a calm swept over him, and he no longer made such a fuss. Ludwig was very quiet with his emotions, but he still very much had them. And both Gilbert and Antonio could tell that he was happier. He didn’t bark back so much, and he didn’t spend hours organizing things just to soothe his nerves. Instead, he went about work calmly, his blue eyes gentle, and his hands softer.

Even today, when Francis was at his most ridiculous, acting out scenes from his visit to Malta and dancing around every square foot of the studio, Ludwig didn’t say a word. He kept to himself, lost in thought, and at some point, Antonio even saw him smiling.

“What are you smirking at?” Gilbert quipped. Apparently he had noticed too.

At once, Ludwig’s back turned to ice, and the smile vanished from his face. He dipped down to refresh his paintbrush. “Nothing at all.”

“Damn it, I’m your big brother! You gotta tell me everything. I demand it!” Gilbert complained and threw his arms about in a fuss. They all had suspicions of course, but with someone like Ludwig…no one dared to approach him. He would either shut the conversation down, or stop whatever was making him happy.

Antonio tried to change the topic. “I hear the pope is looking for another artist. Apparently Cesari is retiring.”

“Ah, yes indeed,” Francis agreed swiftly. “You should consider putting yourself forward Antonio. It would be a big thing for you.”

Antonio may have been the new thing around Rome, and the cardinals may fight over who gets their next commission, but working for a pope is different. He wasn’t so sure Pope Clement VIII would be fond of his work. Not to mention—working for the pope is exhausting. Antonio could hardly manage a career outside of the Vatican. He would probably have to cut off the rest of his patrons.

But the vain part of Antonio wished he could be the pope’s artist, because next to working for the Medici, or kings and queens, it was the highest an artist could go.

“If only I wasn’t so popular already,” Antonio sighed dramatically, and his eyes betrayed his act with a shine of satisfied arrogance. “Though perhaps you two should try.”

Gilbert rolled his eyes. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? You think you’re too good for the pope?” Then Gilbert raised his palms in a gesture of defeat. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I think the pope wants an Italian artist. He’s usually like that. Maybe Feliciano should consider it.”

Antonio saw Ludwig’s hand jolt at the sound of that name, but he let his gaze slide away, as if to give him privacy.

“Ah, I can see dear Feliciano getting along with the pope,” Francis drawled affectionately. But he mused for another moment, and added, “though, it does seem like Feliciano is rather delicate these days. Working for the papacy might be too much for him.”

“I have to agree,” Antonio admitted. His brows were tightly knit and his expression darker.

At first, Antonio was baffled by Lovino’s short letters filled only with pleas to watch over his brother. But slowly, he began to see the changes in Feliciano. Antonio didn’t quite understand the cause, but Feliciano seemed to be drowning deeper and deeper each time he saw him. Any little thing could startle him these days. He was always easily emotional, but now he cried at almost everything.

“Feliciano is far too busy to work for the pope,” Ludwig declared to the room. He held his brush taught in his hand. An inscrutable anger leaked from his choice words.

Antonio worried that something was going to break soon.

October, 1601

Then, one bright, crisp autumn day, all the secrets that had weighed so heavily came crashing down.

It happened so fast, Antonio could hardly remember it. One moment he was painting, talking to Francis (visiting them once again), and making lazy comments to Gilbert and Ludwig over his shoulder. Then like lightning, Feliciano materialized at the entrance of their studio. He was so small, so thin, and practically drowning in a white tunic and black pants. His body could hardly keep itself up; he clutched to the frame of the door as violent sobs wracked his body, his eyes were incapable of remaining open.

Ludwig was the first to reach him. The rest of the room was in complete shock. But none of Ludwig’s frantic words were able to untangle what was going on. Feliciano couldn’t even bear to look at him, and actually _pushed him away_. Feliciano stumbled forward, and Antonio understood he was walking to him, so he lept from his stool and caught him by the shoulders.

Antonio had lived through so many heated, dangerous nights that his body was accustomed to panic. His nature immediately became instinctual, protective, and sirens awakened his sleeping senses.

“Feliciano? What is it? Did something happen? Is it your grandfather? _Lovino?_ Please. What is it?”

Antonio feared it was news of Lovino. Had he gotten sick abroad? Was he dead? And it dawned on him how selfish, how narrow-minded, obsessive, and vain he was to forget about all of Feliciano’s secret torment.

Feliciano raised his head, but it was shaking like the rest of them. Wet and wavering cries flew from his mouth.

“Sodomy…they charged m-me and Ludwig of… _sodomy.”_

Feliciano could not say anymore, and Antonio hid him away in his arms. He was talking to him, trying to comfort him somehow. But what words could he use? There were no words to comfort something like this.

Ludwig had turned to stone at the wall. Gilbert was at his feet, extremely alert, but still helpless. Only Francis stayed calm. And after Feliciano’s wails dwindled to just streams of tears, he stepped forward and touched Feliciano’s shoulder.

“Everything will be fine,” he said calmly. His steady voice drew Feliciano’s eyes to him. Francis didn’t smile, but his face still offered reassurance. “You’ll tell me everything they said. I’ll pay the fine and brush it aside. And we’ll go to Malta for a few weeks until everything dies down, okay?”

Francis always kept his promises. He was blessed with so much inheritance, so much money, influence, and power, that truly anything was possible for him. Antonio came to realize it wasn’t just his personality, it was just _reality_. And sometimes these facts infuriated Antonio, because he knew that no matter what he did or achieved, no matter what any of them did (Gilbert, Ludwig, Feliciano), they were helpless without him. Francis was the patron of their arts, the reason they could make a living, the reason they existed at all, and now he was in command of their reputation too.

But Feliciano was saved by him. Antonio focused on that fact, and tried not to ruminate once again on how unfair their world was.

 

* * *

 

December, 1601

Feliciano returned from Malta a little healthier, slightly warmer, and finally able to smile again. But there was still a delicacy to him. He didn’t cry as often, but was somehow more jumpy than before. He didn’t go to their studio anymore, so Antonio would go to his little house and check in on him.

Antonio tried to talk to him about Ludwig, but after one attempt, he realized that the subject was now taboo. Feliciano could not handle the sound of even his name. It wasn’t anger. It was a cauldron of fear, anxiety, and repressed guilt.

Eventually Feliciano eased into a repaired version of himself and was able to laugh and smile normally. His light was a little dimmer, but still there.

It wasn’t just Antonio desperate for Lovino’s return now. Feliciano needed him. Feliciano _depended_ on him.  

Each night, after leaving Feliciano, Antonio looked up to the stars with hard eyes. It was soon going to be four years. Four fucking years since Lovino left. When the hell was he going to come back?

 

* * *

 

 

March, 1602

The pope had chosen his new artist, and there was a big fuss being hosted at the Vatican. Antonio didn’t have to go, and by all means did not want to go, but people from all sides told him that he must. Cardinal Edelstein insisted it was _propriety_ , Francis said it would be _so interesting_ , and Gilbert told him he had to go so he _better damn well keep him company._

“Is Ludwig not coming?” Antonio asked offhandedly. They were taking their time crossing the grand marble pathways.

Gilbert sighed. “Feliciano is going to be there, so he thought it’d be best if he didn’t go.”

“Ah, right,” Antonio said, and he looked away. Feliciano and Ludwig were on speaking terms again, and perhaps back to normal when they were alone. But both of them were paranoid, and didn’t want to take the chance of even being seen in the same room. The rumors faded, but people still talk.

They entered a large room—Antonio wasn’t sure what to call it. The frescoed ceiling was several feet above them, and on each wall were paintings commissioned by previous artists of the pope. The room was fairly full, and most were dressed in their best clothes; just Antonio and Gilbert arrived looking like vagrants. The cardinals stood out like red pine cones: all of them seemed to have the same tense manner. But Antonio and Gilbert sought out Francis and Feliciano, avoiding eye contact with everyone else in the room.

Feliciano was impossible to find these days, and was probably lingering close to a distant and well disguised wall. Francis, however, was hard to _not_ find. He was talking animatedly to some Italian aristocrats, waving his arms, and laughing loud enough to conquer the chatter surrounding him. A familiar servant wavered unsure by his arm, Francis’s beautiful, blue discarded cloak discarded in his hands. He sensed Antonio and Gilbert’s presence before they could announce it.

“Antonio! Gilbert! My most darling darlings,” he cooed, and his eyes glittered with more excitement than Antonio had seen in _months._ His face was positively beaming. Antonio wondered if he had fallen in love again.

Antonio grinned and clasped his hand to kiss him on both cheeks.

“You’re awfully chipper today,” Gilbert chuckled and crossed his arms to survey the room. “What about the drear crowd has got you all worked up?”

“Have you met the pope’s new artist?” Antonio asked curiously.

“Oh, have I!” Francis laughed, but it trickled into a girlish giggle. “Darling Antonio, I can’t believe you don’t know. The surprise was killing me. When I found out I didn’t know to keep it secret.”

Antonio looked at him, an amused smile curling his lips. “What do you mean?”

“Hm,” Francis hummed tauntingly. His gaze flittered around, and his hair danced with him. “Perhaps you’d like to look about the room and see for yourself. Go on. Take a good look at the people around us.” Antonio raised a brow and turned around, analyzing the faces. Francis peeped eagerly, “try looking behind me.”

Antonio laughed at Francis’s insistence, and dutifully swung his gaze around Francis’s shoulder, looking and looking, ignoring Francis’s uncontainable excitement, and trying to figure out…

And then he saw him. Lovino. _His Lovino._

Four years later. Four agonizing years later and there he was again. And he radiated stronger than the sun.

Lovino was standing amongst a group of gentlemen and ladies, clad in a crimson vest with gold lining, jewels on his fingers, and tall in smooth, black boots. He had a hand on his hip and a confident smile—a twinkle in his eye. He looked strong, arrogant, and absolutely _spoiled rotten._

Feliciano hadn’t been exaggerating at all, because the Lovino standing before Antonio now was not the rough and flustered sixteen-year-old boy he found on the street. Or even like the stubborn and alluring painter at nineteen. This was a Lovino Antonio had never known. A Lovino that didn’t exist until Spain.

Twenty-three, an adult, a successful painter, and completely polished from the shine of his hair to the embroidery of his cuffs. He was so perfect. So obviously _satisfied_ from years of extravagant pampering that he looked like he was a gentleman himself. This Lovino had been _loved_ by Spain.

Antonio’s heart raced just seeing the bridge of Lovino’s nose and the tint of his cheeks: he was here. Now. In Rome. Finally.

All of Lovino’s beauty Antonio had so long admired looked as though it had been passionately caressed and nurtured. The suppleness of Lovino’s skin and the wit in his eyes told Antonio that most certainly Lovino was no longer a child. Whether it was men or women, Lovino had long since been taken. The innocence was gone, but Antonio discerned that there still lingered a certain purity—though what that meant, he did not exactly know.

Was Antonio jealous? Oh, his skin _burned_ in jealousy. His tendons went taught in greed. But more than anything he _yearned_ for Lovino. He wanted him more than ever before. Not just because Lovino had finally returned, and not just because Antonio carried the torch of his infatuation for so long.

Seeing Lovino here, so immaculate, coddled, and _smug._ So suddenly confident that nothing could touch him… _Oh._ Antonio grinned.

He wanted to take this Lovino apart. Ravish him like no stranger in Spain ever could, and find the Lovino that would beg for him and call his name. He wanted to conquer that pride.

His gaze was so heated, practically on fire, he couldn’t possibly turn away. Eventually, Lovino’s conversation dwindled so that he finally noticed. Those warm, honey-brown eyes found his face. They went wide, but just for a moment. Then, his brows lowered and he gave Antonio the most pompous and dashing smile. And Antonio knew what it said:

_I told you I’d be back to beat you, didn’t I?_

Antonio laughed wildly. Lovino looked so sure in himself. He didn’t realize that Antonio had been _waiting_ for an opportunity like this. An excuse to pursue Lovino with everything he had. And Antonio knew he would win this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I have no idea when the next chapter is coming, but I'm really trying to crank this story out before I get burned out (already feeling as though I am treading on that cusp), so hopefully very soon!
> 
> Please comment :)


	7. "The Most Famous Painter in Rome"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To reiterate everyone’s ages, at this point Lovino and Feliciano are twenty-three, Ludwig is twenty-seven, Antonio is thirty-one, and Francis and Gilbert are thirty-three.
> 
> This chapter was a capital PAIN to write. Weaving historical canon of pirate!Spain’s character in the story and managing both his development and Lovino’s…well, I managed it somehow. And fair warning before you delve in: this chapter is steamy. Not sexually explicit. But very...steamy. I think Antonio wrote this chapter instead of me. (I updated the tags!)
> 
> Also HAPPY BIRTHDAY THE GOLIATH BEETLE!! ENJOY SOME BOY LOVE!!

Rome, Italy

March, 1602

 

* * *

 

Lovino was still in the midst of a conversation, but there was no force on earth that could halt Antonio from running to him; he hardly cared about anyone else or what they might think. He took long, smooth strides and was at once crossing the circle of conversation. Lovino was watching him, smiling at him so complacently, that Antonio _had_ to surprise him. His green eyes sparkled maliciously and he swiftly swooped Lovino into a hug - savoring, oh how he savored, the wide-eyed shock - and lifted him off the floor in a twirl. 

“Antonio!” Lovino shouted, and laughter escaped his lips. It sounded slightly embarrassed, but not embarrassed enough. “What the hell? Put me down already!”

Antonio did as he was told, and plopped Lovino back onto the floor in a flourish. Lovino was left red in the cheeks, eyes amused but also a little overwhelmed, and his polished hair slightly mussed.

“Lovino,” Antonio sighed dangerously, his lashes fluttering shut. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming back to Rome?”

Lovino puffed up with more confidence, and delight soothed the momentary bashfulness away. “Why should I have? I thought it was more fun this way,” he said, and his childish smile returned. “I wanted to surprise _you_ for once.” He was so pleased with himself. So absolutely pleased. He practically sparkled in anticipation of Antonio’s praise and attention.

_Oh, but that wouldn’t do._

Antonio grinned crookedly. “Ah, but I wish you would’ve told me. I was married last week, and I would’ve _loved_ to have you at my wedding.” It was such an obvious taunt, such open bait, but despite Lovino’s outward maturity, he fell for it at once and looked at Antonio positively dumbstruck, the new flush draining from his face. Antonio didn’t let the jab last long before he leaned closer and winked. “I’m only joking.”

Lovino blinked, and quickly straightened himself. He raised his chin and said, “of course you are. I can’t imagine someone like you married.” He looked Antonio over and raised a brow mockingly. “You’re just the same as I left you it seems. Still a bastard, huh? 

“Would you want me any other way?” Antonio jeered. 

A small smile crept across Lovino’s lips. He glanced away, and said more to himself than Antonio, “I suppose not.”

But Antonio still heard it.

 

* * *

 

Throughout the rest of the Vatican gathering, Antonio didn’t let Lovino out of his sight. Of course, Lovino had to mingle, and Antonio couldn’t actually follow him as he did that. But even as Lovino stepped away to talk to the pope or one of the many cardinals, Antonio kept an eye on him. Just to make sure he wouldn’t fly away.  

Lovino of course noticed, but surprisingly he didn’t seem to mind. Quite the opposite. He looked as though it _pleased_ him to have Antonio’s attention, and occasionally he would throw a mischievous grin Antonio’s way.

At some point Feliciano appeared, and he frolicked to Lovino’s side looking marvelously happier. He was still rather slim and delicate, but for the first time in several weeks he dressed in his usual bright colors, and his soft, brown eyes didn’t look quite as tired. Lovino and Feliciano shared a private conversation, and it was refreshing to finally hear the melody of Feliciano’s laugh again.

Noticing Antonio was alone, Francis skipped to his side, a servant close on his tail.

“So Antonio, my darling,” he cooed and brushed a hand across Antonio’s shoulder. “Are you quite happy your lover has returned?”

Antonio laughed. “Well,” he said. “I’m happy Lovino has returned. We’ll see what happens next though.” This new Lovino was a bit harder to read. He wasn’t oblivious as the younger one was, nor as wary, but Antonio still couldn’t tell what this Lovino thought of him. Not that they’ve had much of an opportunity to be alone yet, but anyway.

“Hm, well try not to sound too despondent,” Francis commanded lightly, and his voice was laden in secret wisdom. He met Antonio’s gaze, and his blue eyes glittered. “I don’t know how it was when you two parted, but I saw the way Lovino looked at you before you even noticed him.”

“Really?” Antonio asked eagerly, curiously, _desperately._

“Yes,” Francis purred and he leaned closer to whisper in Antonio’s ear. “As soon as he saw you, his face flushed like a tomato. I couldn’t tell if he wanted to run to you or run away.” Francis snuck a glance to Lovino, and drifted even closer to Antonio’s cheek. “Even now he’s watching us you know. I’m fairly certain he thinks we’re a couple.”

Antonio turned to Lovino, but he only managed to catch the back of Lovino’s head, as he already faced Feliciano once again. “I don’t know,” Antonio mused. “This Lovino is different than the one I used to know. He’s more collected and confident.”

Francis hummed and slowly pulled away. “Just because he appears different, doesn’t mean he _is_ different.” He gave Antonio a long and knowing look. “I don’t know if people can ever change who they are. They just force themselves to act differently. Sometimes they have to."

Antonio listened to him, and pondered the theory. He didn’t know if he could ever understand, since Antonio himself was actually incapable of acting any other way than his own. (Perhaps that was why he led such a tumultuous life.) But, in the world they lived in…he supposed it made some sense. Antonio suspected Francis was speaking from a place of secret knowledge: he usually did.

Once Lovino was alone, Antonio would divulge the truth from him. The truth of Lovino’s heart was the only treasure he ever wanted after all.

 

* * *

 

After the gathering dwindled, Antonio sought Lovino’s side. He smiled at him and asked, “can I walk you home?" 

Lovino brightened, but tried to play it off with a smirk. “Well, I live in the Vatican now, so it’s not a long walk. But sure,” he said casually. He retrieved a fine, grey cloak and they departed from the grandiose room. Antonio walked close, and side by side to him, drinking in his warmth.

It was March, and the weather was still unstable. While they walked across the blanket of white marble a gentle drizzle slowly fell, but neither of them hurried their pace. Antonio adored how the raindrops lingered on Lovino’s hair, the tip of his nose, the curve of his jaw—Oh. He was talking.

“You know, I’m pretty pissed with you,” Lovino blurted.

Antonio grinned, thinking it was a game. “Why is that?”

But Lovino’s lips had pressed together and his brows furrowed in concern. (So not a game then.) “I told you to watch over Feliciano, and I come back to see him looking not just stressed, but actually _sick,”_ he looked to Antonio, and his eyes were pleading, maybe even angry. “What the hell happened to him?”

Antonio went quiet. He hadn’t realized that Feliciano never told him, or that Lovino never heard the rumors. Francis, of course, was very thorough to brush the ordeal away, but how could Lovino not have heard? Or had any suspicion? Maybe some of his innocence was still there after all. Lovino had been so pampered in Spain.

Antonio stared at the ground ahead of them, and a shadow darkened his eyes. He could tell Lovino all of the truth right now, he supposed. But then he thought of Feliciano and…he felt like it wasn’t his secret to tell. And maybe another part of him wanted to keep protecting Lovino. If he wasn’t completely aware of their harsh reality, Antonio didn’t want to be the one to dawn it on him. Not like this.

So he lied. “I think work has been especially hard on him these days. And he’s been so lonely without you. There wasn’t much I could do.”

“But I trusted you to take care of him!” Lovino pressed, his voice rising. “I thought if you cared about me you’d care for him too!”

Antonio turned to him with a grave look neither of them expected. Lovino even flinched. “He isn’t my brother, or my family. If you were so concerned, why didn’t you come back earlier?” _Come back to me too._

Lovino squared his shoulders and regained composure. “Because I couldn’t come back,” he replied curtly. “I promised myself I couldn’t come back until I matched you, or else it was all for nothing.”

“How selfish.”

“Selfish?” Lovino repeated indignantly. His eyes widened and Antonio swore he detected a flicker of pain. “I told you before I left that I _had_ to go! Not just for me, but for…” his voice trailed and he stopped in front of a door. Lovino took a deep breath and faced Antonio once again, this time more guarded and less bitter. “This is where I live now.”

Antonio made a show of looking around, falsely impressed, just to piss Lovino off a little more. “Hm, what a pretty little cage.”

But Lovino opened the door without even paying attention to him. And he ordered something Antonio thought he would never hear.

“Come inside.”

Antonio blinked, and in smooth paranoia he glanced all around them (making sure they weren’t seen, because apparently Lovino didn’t worry about things like this). Satisfied that the coast was clear, he followed Lovino inside the dark little flat.

Lovino beelined around the room, lighting candles, and hurriedly tossed his cloak over a chair, then fled to the sanctity kitchen. Antonio studied the apartment openly. He wondered when exactly Lovino arrived in Rome. The apartment was simply decorated, and it very well could have been given to Lovino this way, but he found no trace of baggage or trunks anywhere. It was very empty in the first two rooms.

“Are you hungry?” Lovino asked. He was darting about the kitchen, grabbing fruit and a knife, before settling at the kitchen room table. He was still frustrated with Antonio about Feliciano, that much was obvious. But he also seemed to want to make amends, and was trying very earnestly to cool off.

Antonio decided to give him the chance, and gracefully sat in a chair across from him. “When did you arrive in Rome?”

Lovino was cutting an apple. He didn’t falter. “Three days ago.”

 _“Three?”_ Antonio exclaimed and his hands drew tight in fists. “And you didn’t think of seeing me just once?”

Lovino was very concentrated on his apple now. “I had shit to do.” But before Antonio could get out his sour reply, he added, “I did have time to see some of your paintings though.”

Antonio paused and released a breath.

Lovino shoved the apple slices onto a plate. He was chopping awfully fast. “Yeah, I particularly liked _The Calling of Saint Matthew_. Feliciano drew it for me, but in person it was very…beautiful.”

Antonio didn’t know what to say. Lovino was throwing him for a loop. One moment he was cold and the next he was hot. Or was it vice-versa? The anger was hotter than the affection after all. Suddenly he laughed. Lovino almost dropped his knife at the sound.

“Lovino,” he said, his voice the most tender since they reunited. Lovino looked at him, eyes dark and cautious. “I have missed you so much. So, so much.”

“Really?” Lovino replied offhandedly, pretending not to care. “I figured you would have moved on. It’s been four years after all.”

Now Lovino was teasing him, but Antonio knew how to handle this. He grinned, and his eyes danced in the candlelight. “Oh, I’ve had many distractions to fill the void, don’t you worry. There’s no shortage of lustful pursuits in Rome. But I’ve heard through the grapevine that you’ve been busy yourself. _Latin lover?”_ Antonio was luring the truth from him, but he was quite certain he would get what he wanted.

A blush spread across Lovino’s cheeks, but he remained dedicated to the task of chopping every piece of fruit he had: now it was a pear. He smirked, but it was small and not very believable. “Is it that hard to believe?”

“No,” Antonio replied slowly, fervidly. He wondered if Lovino felt how tense and heated the kitchen had become. “But I’ve always known, from the moment I met you, that you were a lover and not a fighter. You’re so sensitive after all.”

Lovino laughed airily. “You know, I didn’t realize how Spanish you were until I actually went to Spain. They all talked like you. So _easy_.”

Antonio stared at him, leaning closer over the table. “Is that why you fell for them?”

“I didn’t _fall_ for anyone,” Lovino declared solidly, and he met Antonio’s eyes with firm tenacity. Antonio loved it. “It’s like you said. They were distractions,” Lovino added flippantly.

Antonio licked his lips and breathed a playful sigh. “Oh? And did you need a great many distractions?”

“They wanted _me.”_

“I can believe that.” Antonio patted Lovino’s ego. Now he was beginning to adore the way Lovino would preen at every reassurance. “Was it men or women?”

Lovino was caught off guard by that, and Antonio saw the knife narrowly miss Lovino’s finger. Swiftly, Antonio swiped the cutting board, knife and fruit from Lovino’s hands and began doing the meaningless task himself without a word. He allowed Lovino room to speak.

Slowly, so very slowly, Lovino said, “women.” Antonio kept cutting the fruit, sensing Lovino wanted to say something more. “What about you?”

Antonio smiled. Even after all this time, Lovino hadn’t learned. “Men. It can only be men.”

“I see,” Lovino said tightly. His slim fingers drummed across the table impatiently. Very boastfully, he added, “I don’t understand why though. Women are so soft and kind. How could it possibly work between two men?”

Antonio liked that challenge, so he stopped chopping the fruit and set the knife and cutting board to the side. He delicately picked at the fruit, dragging out Lovino’s impatience with such humor. He ate an orange slice and said, “it can be just as much fun, you know. Sometimes more passionate. There’s always the lingering sense of danger when you’re in the act so you have to be careful. Secretive.”

Lovino watched him discreetly. Then a hand rushed through his hair and he quipped, “speaking from years of experience, are you?” He didn’t look Antonio in the eye as he said it.

“Well, I’ve slept with dozens of men and have yet to be caught, so I’d say I know what I’m doing. I’m quite the popular sexual partner.”

Lovino was still turned away, and now his hand rested at the side of his head. In a low voice, he replied, “I doubt that.”

Antonio chuckled and continued eating the fruit. “But how can you know for sure?”

It fell eerily silent for a long while. Antonio kept eating carelessly, and Lovino was still turned away. It was dark outside, and the candles flickered the only light in the room. Lovino’s skin shined a rose-gold.

“I lied,” Lovino blurted randomly.

Antonio had drifted off, and no longer knew which sentence Lovino was addressing. “What?” he asked.

“I lied,” Lovino repeated calmly. _Very_ calmly. “It…wasn’t just women. There was a man—once.” He paused, and it was an agonizing silence. “I was curious, and lonely, and I missed…I wanted to know how it would be.”

Antonio thought he heard extra words: _if it was between me and you._ But maybe that was his imagination getting the best of him.  

He tried to remain calm and impassive; Lovino was baring his heart to him after all, and that was what he wanted. Before he turned jealous, he thought he should try to listen for once. _“And?”_ he prompted.

Lovino was still turned away, but the tips of his ears glowed red. Or was that the candlelight? “It did not go well,” he muttered.

Antonio’s body tensed. All of his muscles were tight, but he managed a smooth reply. “Did he hurt you?”

Lovino’s fingers fisted in his hair and Antonio could tell he wanted to turn around. But he was _surprised_ Lovino actually did. Lovino changed positions and in a frenzied fashion, crossed his arms, leaned back in his chair so far that it touched the counter, and balanced himself by the heels of his boots poised against the edge of the table. Lovino glanced to the ceiling, and his reply left so hurriedly from his lips, Antonio had to shift closer just to make sense of it.

“I just—I didn’t know what to do. And it was when I had just gotten to Spain. And we were both very drunk. Or at least I was. I assume he was too. And it just wasn’t…pleasant.”

The sentence ended like a loud crashing wave for both of them. And while Antonio was still in the midst of deciphering and picturing it all, Lovino abruptly dropped his chair to the floor and flew across the floor. “Anyway,” he called. “I, um, hold on a second.”

Antonio remained in his seat, processing a great many emotions now. Love for Lovino’s return. Pity at Lovino’s ignorance. Protectiveness of Lovino’s innocence. Anger at Lovino’s obliviousness. Jealousy at Lovino’s good experiences. And sadness at Lovino’s poor experience.

But Lovino returned much more composed, and dropped a rather large wrapped package on the space of the table in front of Antonio.

“You didn’t ask for any souvenirs or anything, but I felt weird coming back empty-handed,” he said mildly. As Antonio began unwrapping it, he added, “the measurements should be right.”

Antonio stood up and began to unfold the scarlet garment before him. He spread it open and held it against his chest, examining it. It was a dark red coat.  

“I know you don’t care for clothes, but dammit you should because it’s just as much art as painting is. And you always wear black, but I thought red would suit you, so that’s why I got it,” Lovino huffed.

Wordlessly, Antonio pulled it over his black shirt, and at once, Lovino was near him, straightening the shoulders and adjusting the collar and buttons. Then he stepped back.

A slow and wide smile spread across Antonio’s face. He had to seek a mirror. And without asking, he paced about the flat, finding Lovino’s room. A slack mirror was laid against a bare wall and he posed in front of it. He laughed. “Oh, Lovino! It’s so magnificent!”

Lovino sighed. It sounded like relief. “Well, it cost enough,” he muttered dryly.

Antonio spun around and stood in front of him. “How do I look? Dashing like a pirate? Handsome like a scoundrel? Elegant like a gentleman?”

An amused smile betrayed Lovino’s lips. He even chuckled. “Pirate,” he said. His brown eyes cast over the coat. “It suits you almost _too_ well.”

Antonio tossed his head back and gave Lovino a comically lustful stare. “There is no such thing as being too attracted to me.”

Antonio expected Lovino to look away. Antonio expected Lovino to avoid, or blush, or ignore the mention. But…Lovino held his gaze, just for a few moments. And Antonio, though brash and assuming, swore he deciphered something akin to _want_ in Lovino’s eyes. More cautious than lust, but still honestly, romantically yearning for Antonio.

Then Lovino turned down and paid close attention to the floor.

Antonio stepped away from the mirror and closer to Lovino. He had to ask. He _had_ to. “Are you attracted to me, Lovino?”

Lovino began tapping his foot, still looking purposefully away. He bit his lips, whipped his head forward and exclaimed, “are _you?_ Are you sure you’re not too busy with the French guy or all of those other men?”

Antonio laughed, and it was obvious that Lovino didn’t appreciate it, so he grasped his hands and kissed them. “My darling.” _Darling?_ Since when had he started talking like Francis? But perhaps he could learn a thing or two from Francis’s soft affection. He continued, “anyone I have ever slept with, or have ever touched, has been a replacement for you. Because I couldn’t have you.” Lovino glanced down at their clasped hands in silence, and Antonio asked, “was it the same for you?”

Lovino twisted his lips. “I’m…not sure.” Antonio didn’t let go of his hands, and he felt Lovino’s palms sweat. Lovino himself had turned stiff under pressure. “I was so confused when I left. I didn’t understand anything at all. So when I was in Spain I thought I could, and everyone was so nice to me, and I wasn’t used to that.”

 _“I think he kind of got swept away.”_ Feliciano’s words echoed in Antonio’s head. They made so much sense. Maybe not as much then, but now—yes, they did. Very much so.

“And do you understand?” Antonio pressed.

Lovino met his eyes. So brown and smooth, caressed by soft lashes, and protected by firm brows. He was quiet.

Antonio smiled and decided some theatrics were needed. “Well,” he sighed and knelt to the floor, on one knee, still holding Lovino’s hands. “Maybe I should remind you that my feelings have not changed. Not one bit. Perhaps they’ve even grown.” He relished every piece of Lovino’s critical gaze. “I love you. Forever and always. With all of my passion.”

What happened next—Antonio did not expect.

Antonio had planned to kiss Lovino’s hands again, but felt himself instead, yanked up by the collar of his shirt, his chin forced high, and his parted lips met with something soft. He was kissing Lovino. Lovino was actually kissing him. And despite how it happened, it wasn’t as awkward as Antonio would have thought. Lovino was deliberate, even sensual. Though his hold on Antonio’s collar was rough, Antonio soon adjusted, and rose to his feet to caress Lovino’s cheeks. Antonio held his face softly at first, but then his heart raced, his stomach fluttered, and his veins burned. He held Lovino’s face closer, harder. He _needed_ him closer still. Wanted him to _meld_ into his body. All of these years, since Antonio first laid eyes on him, he desired Lovino to be near like this. Everything about him - every single thing - beckoned Antonio. At first, yes, it was just lust. But lust didn’t make him attracted to the flaws, to the personality, to the person that Lovino was. That could only be, and was, love.

Lovino’s hands circled around Antonio’s back and gripped his hair. It hurt, but he reveled in it. At some point Antonio had stalked Lovino against a wall, because he heard a loud thud. They stayed together, feverish and tight. Lips pressed hard, harder, and _harder._ At some point Lovino gasped, and Antonio realized how taut his hold on Lovino’s face had become. He was grasping at the nape of his neck, so he moved his hands to just above Lovino’s hips, anchoring him to the wall. How had it taken this long? How had he survived years without this contact? No one else he had ever touched mattered. They didn’t compare to this. Lovino, now older, but still so similar — his body was tender and masculine and perfect. Antonio wanted to feel all of it, know all of it, see _everything._ Oh, if only this were the time to do so.

But he couldn’t allow that chance. Not now, and certainly not here in the Vatican.

Antonio didn’t want it to end. He didn’t want to stop. But like the hundreds of brawls he’d been in, his senses had been honed about the danger of rendezvousing with other men. He _had_ to be paranoid. And because Lovino wasn’t afraid at all, he had to fear for both of them.

And against all of the pleas of his heart and body, he opened his eyes and pushed Lovino away, almost violently. Both of them were panting, and Lovino at least was red in the face, he probably was too. He felt red to his core.

Lovino eyes were wide, frustrated, and teetering on furious. He thought Antonio was rejecting him. Later, Antonio would laugh about this— _could Lovino really not see the desire in his eyes?_ Because it was burning him alive right now.

But before Lovino could shout something he’d regret, Antonio hushed and pressed a finger to Lovino’s lips. He made an obvious point of moving his eyes all about the room, and settled on Lovino’s face once more.

“You do know we’re in the heart of the Vatican right now, don’t you?” Antonio whispered close to Lovino’s ear. It sounded too _eager._ He was grinning _madly._ “Our pope…” His teeth grazed the soft skin on Lovino’s cheek. “The cardinals…” _Reign it in._ Lovino’s breath was shaky near his face. “All of the Catholic church…” _Pull away._ Antonio’s chuckle sounded like a growl. “Is just outside these walls.”

Lovino was so damn warm. Both of their breaths heaved too fast. Were they sweating or was it the rain still on their skin?

When Lovino finally spoke, his voice sounded far steadier than Antonio’s, but still clearly nettled and confused. “We’re in my damn room, not the Pope’s chambers,” he muttered, following the same low tone. “Are you worried a cardinal is going to come in and make my bed?”

Antonio couldn’t help it. He had to wrap his arms around Lovino once more, but this time in an embrace. Lovino was just so precious. He knew of the danger, but he really didn’t fear the consequences. He must not realize them. Ah, that was what the purity was. He still had what Feliciano had lost.

Antonio sighed dreamily, and enjoyed one last time, the press of Lovino’s body to his. “I should go before it’s too late,” he said. “Any later might cause trouble. And we both need the church on our side.”

Lovino grumbled, and finally, in an act of defeat, dropped his head on Antonio’s shoulder. “Once the tables are turned, you start running, huh?”

Antonio laughed close to Lovino’s ear. “Did it really look like I wanted to run?”

One last pause, and Lovino shoved Antonio away with a lofty huff. “Well,” he said, not meeting Antonio’s eyes. “You had one chance to win me over and you squandered it. Congratulations.” He walked away to the far side of his bed and slumped down, arms crossed. He was tapping his foot again.

Lovino was hurt, and he didn’t understand—Antonio knew that. But he had to let it lie with a final cocky laugh. “I’ll make other chances then. You’re not rid of me yet. We’re rivals now after all.”

The tapping ceased, and Lovino peered over his shoulder. His smile was wicked. “That’s right you bastard. Get used to it.”

Antonio pet the elegant sleeves of his new coat. “Should I consider that a word of endearment now?” Antonio cut him off straight away with his own answer. “I think after today’s foreplay I will.”

 _“Foreplay?!”_ Lovino raised his voice indignantly.

Antonio’s heart stuttered, wondering if Lovino had spoken to loud, but he heard nothing stir, and decided it would be best to continue carrying on.

He composed himself in front of Lovino’s mirror, making a show of tidying his hair and primping the collar of his coat. He winked. “You know I think you’re right. Red really is my color.” And with great effort, he was able to feign a casual departure. Even a smile. “I’ll be in your dreams tonight.”

“Like hell you will!” Lovino called after him. Antonio winced. It was still too loud.

“I love you, Lovino,” he said with a final wave. That shut Lovino up. “Have a good night.”

He walked slowly on purpose, just so he could hear Lovino’s eventual farewell.

“Good night, Antonio.”

Antonio smiled the whole walk back.

 

* * *

 

Lovino was in his dreams.

 

* * *

 

It was hard to keep himself away the next few days, but Antonio was swamped with work, and either Lovino was just as busy as he was, or he was still bitter about Antonio leaving the way he did that night. He preferred to think it was the former. Lovino was working in the Vatican after all, working on new frescoes for the pope.

Antonio already had several rumors about himself in Rome. He knew that much. And it was a part of the reason he didn’t want to linger too close to Lovino in the heart of the Catholic church. A part of him was a little thankful for Lovino’s newfound reputation as a Latin lover, because that would hopefully keep him safe even in Antonio’s presence. But even so, Antonio could never take another chance to embrace him in the Vatican. It was far, far too dangerous. If Lovino still wanted him, he would have to sweep him far away, hidden in the night, in the secret places Antonio knew they’d be safe. His own home wasn’t one of them, because it was stained in his own controversial reputation, but Francis had options. In his own delicate way, he offered Antonio the opportunity to bring Lovino to his little palace: it had dozens of rooms after all, and Francis was so social, he flit in and out like a butterfly.

And of course, the reason he offered was because Antonio couldn’t keep his damn mouth shut, and told both Gilbert and Francis what happened the very same night it did, almost shouting he was so excited.

Gilbert was far more cautious these days after what happened to Ludwig, but by now he knew that Antonio had the most street smarts of all of them—he’d been in more fights than he could count after all, and still lives to tell the tale. So Gilbert trusted Antonio.

But even when he plastered a grin and clapped Antonio on the back, his eyes were a little sad. “It’s about damn time, you know! How long have you fawned over him? Seven years? Hopefully he’s worth the wait.”

“Oh, don’t even say that, Gilbert!” Francis tutted, like the very mention of unsatisfying love wounded him. “Of course it’s worth the wait. Imagine how much more passionate it will be too. They’re equals now after all. And two artists! Oh, I can’t even imagine.” Francis sighed, letting his lashes flutter shut. Then he pointed. “I expect a full report of everything that happens.”

“For god’s sake, Francis,” Gilbert laughed. “Why the hell would you want to know that?”

But Antonio was beaming in delight and he grabbed Francis’s hands. “Of course, of course! If I don’t tell someone, then I might burst!”

Francis held his hands steadfast. They were ignoring Gilbert’s protests now. “Understandable, my darling. And I will always be here as a source of romantic and sexual inspiration for you.”

“Ew, Francis!” Gilbert was still laughing, but he had to turn away. “Shit, you guys are disgusting. I don’t know why I’m friends with you two.”

“Well of course I can give you advice with Elizaveta too if you so need it, Gilbert,” Francis offered demurely.

Curiosity betrayed him, and Gilbert turned back around, his eyes wide and no longer sad. “Really?”

Francis’s smile was curled like a cat. “I’m French after all. I only exist for love and to love.”

That much was very obvious.

It took several days, until it was finally Sunday, for Antonio to find time to visit Lovino. Straight after mass, he walked to the Vatican—it was the middle of the day, so no harm could be found. He strut across marble, following the same path to Lovino’s flat. Antonio couldn’t contain the bounce in the step, or fight the large smile on his face: his eyes must be sparkling. And some point he was whistling, almost prancing the way to Lovino’s door. He was passing several hallways, and many doors, and suddenly Antonio felt someone grab his arm and pull him backwards. Antonio felt adrenaline rush in his veins, and he faced the culprit in a fury.

But he stopped when he realized it was Roma Vargas holding him back. And little Feliciano was loitering behind him, eyes scared and sympathetic.

Antonio swallowed his anger, and met Roma’s threatening glare. He even managed a smile. “Roma, how long since I’ve seen you! How is Farnese going? Did you and Feliciano just get back from mass too?”

They didn’t live here. Antonio presumed they must have gone to mass with Lovino and visited his quarters afterwards. Though they seemed to be leaving from a different direction…perhaps they went to see his fresco.

Roma stared at him with hard brown eyes. Antonio recognized Lovino in them. “Where are you going?” he asked gravely. Roma knew the answer. He must know. He just wanted to hear Antonio say it.

So as easily as he could, Antonio replied, “why, I’m off to see Lovino. We haven’t caught up properly since he returned and I need to hear all about Spain.” He pried Roma’s grip from his sleeve, but Roma just grabbed him again. Now Antonio’s blood was _boiling._

“Lovino’s taking a siesta, so you should let him rest,” Roma ordered, his voice level and controlled. Feliciano sighed behind him, knowing there was nothing he could do.

Antonio looked down at him, eyes gleaming, and refusing to turn away. He couldn’t tell how much Roma knew…Of him, Lovino, or what happened with Feliciano. Roma was hard to read, very stubborn, and quite critical of the gossip that circulated in Rome. But surely he must have confronted Feliciano about the charge—what Feliciano said, however, Antonio could not guess. But if Roma was protective of his sons before Feliciano’s charge, he seemed to be twice that now. Antonio could see - he saw it in Roma’s eyes - there was no way he was going to let Antonio pass. Maybe Roma thought he would rape Lovino in his sleep. Maybe Roma thought Antonio was actually close to sweeping him away. No matter which reason it was, or both, it wasn’t going to happen.

And Antonio, though just as proud, could not justify fighting with Lovino’s grandfather.

So he managed a small smile, and said, “ah, I suppose you’re right. I wouldn’t want to disturb him.” Roma loosened his grip, and Antonio snatched his arm back sharply. He didn’t trust himself to say anything more, even a goodbye to Feliciano (he was just far too mad), and retraced his steps out of the Vatican. Roma and Feliciano were close on his heels. He could hear them. But Antonio pressed forward, winding the streets of Rome, until finally they parted ways.

Once alone, Antonio kicked the nearest stone wall and cursed to himself. He was absolutely livid. To think Roma didn’t even trust him to be in the same room as Lovino. God, how he wanted to scream. To yell. To hurt Roma for even thinking that. And Antonio was damned if those threats could keep him away. And, still blanketed by crisp sunlight, Antonio marched back to the Vatican, much faster, and more desperately than before.

People were about, but Roma and Feliciano were nowhere to be seen, so he pressed forward until he once again reached Lovino’s doorstep. He knocked loudly, but received no answer. Antonio groaned and wondered if Lovino was told to ignore him. So he stomped around the perimeter, searching for Lovino’s bedroom window. It surprised him to see the glass pushed open, and a loose curtain floating outside. A bit more tentatively than before, Antonio approached the window, pulling aside the curtain, and peered inside.

Lovino was lying on his bed, fully clothed in green and grey, even his boots still on, and breathing softly and slowly. The anger that had collected in Antonio’s chest released itself just at the sight. Now he was just full of love.

Antonio glanced around him, checking to see whether the coast was clear. Once a nun turned the corner, he deftly climbed inside and shut the window behind himself, drawing the curtains too. Lovino didn’t even stir. His dark lashes laid delicately against his warm skin, and his rust-brown hair splayed on one of the white pillows. Oh, how Antonio wanted to touch him. He _needed_ to touch him. Without even thinking, Antonio knelt by the side of the bed, and let his hands brush stray locks from Lovino’s forehead. He was even more beautiful this close. Antonio wanted to protect him. To guard him. Always. Forever.

“Your hands smell like paint,” Lovino grumbled, his eyes still closed.

Antonio hadn’t realized he awoke him, and retracted his hand away with a chuckle. He folded his arms over the mattress and laid his head atop them, gazing at Lovino from the same angle. “Curse of an artist,” he replied. “Are you very tired?”

Lovino sighed softly, pressing his face closer to the pillow. “I’m always tired.” One brown eye opened, and it was so warm. “Aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” Antonio smiled. “I don’t know.”

Lovino’s eye shut again. “That’s an odd thing to say.” It was quiet again, and Antonio continued admiring Lovino’s face. Softly, he asked, “Where have you been this week?”

“Oh, I’ve been quite busy,” he murmured. “I would have come sooner, but I had no time. What about you?”

Lovino pushed his head completely into his pillow now. He sounded so exhausted. “I’ve been busy too.”

Antonio nodded. “That’s what I figured.” He was relieved that was the reason. More content, Antonio let his eyes fall shut too. He felt himself begin to drift off.

“So you are tired,” Lovino muttered, and Antonio looked at him. Lovino was turned on the side of the pillow again, both of his eyes open and a small smile on his lips. Then he turned onto his other side. “Get in the damn bed already. I’m not getting up anytime soon.”

Antonio practically jumped to his feet. He swiftly removed his coat, tossing it on a spare chair, and made sure the windows were closed and covered. Then he happily crawled onto the bed, just beside Lovino, and laid down. His arms circled around Lovino’s waist, and he sighed against Lovino’s shoulder. “I love you,” he murmured, and nuzzled his face into Lovino’s hair.

Lovino had already fallen back asleep, and Antonio was soon after him.

 

* * *

 

“How is the fresco going?” Antonio asked quietly. They were both awake now, and still lying in bed. Lovino was looking at the ceiling. 

“Fine,” Lovino replied, a smile curving his lips.

Antonio hummed and continued stroking Lovino’s hair. “Francis is hosting a party next week. Do you think you can come?”

Lovino blinked and shifted his face to look at Antonio. His eyes were amber. “Why would I want to go to a party?” He was teasing, but a part of him sounded curious.

Antonio propped himself on one arm and grinned. “Because I’ll be there.”

Lovino rolled his eyes and turned back to the ceiling. He was quiet in thought. “I’m not sure what I make of that French guy.”

“He’s quite a character,” Antonio laughed. “But he means well. He wants you to come.”

Lovino huffed, clearly not believing a word. He was so stubborn.

“I think you should come,” Antonio pressed gently. “It’s safe there. Francis is good at keeping secrets.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Lovino said, his voice firm, hard.

Antonio couldn’t help but sigh. Either Lovino was being purposefully dense, or he truly didn’t understand.

“Antonio,” Lovino called, a little softer. He looked at him in concentration. “Why are you so paranoid?”

Antonio returned to caressing Lovino’s hair, pushing it away from his forehead. “Because I have to be.”

Lovino crossed his arms over his chest and his expression was hard. “You’ve changed since I’ve been gone.”

“You’ve changed too, you know.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Lovino muttered. “And it’s not just you. Everyone’s changed. Grandpa, Feliciano, even the German idiots.” He pursed his lips, and his skin was heated. “I don’t like it.”

Antonio ignored Lovino’s suspicions, and kissed his hand. “Will you come then?”

Their eyes met, and Antonio could tell, in the depths of Lovino’s molten eyes, he was not done with his pestering. He snatched his hand away from Antonio’s lips and crossed his arms over his chest again, huffing in annoyance.

Eventually, he said, “yeah, I’ll go.”

 

* * *

 

 April, 1602

Lovino came back with so many beautiful clothes from Spain, he could wear a new outfit almost everyday of the week. Amongst the many things the Spanish court had taught him, was to set aside two pairs of clothes for painting, and keep the rest safe and hanged away, so there was no chance of spoiling them. Until Spain, Lovino didn’t give a shit what his clothes were, or even what he looked like. But the Spanish…the artists he worked with, and the gentleman and ladies he talked to—they complimented him so often. Lovino thought it was only Antonio who could ever find him attractive really, but everyone in Spain seemed to like him too.

He was hesitant at first, but slowly, he let himself change. They taught him the colors to wear, the newest styles, and they also encouraged Lovino to go out at night, have a good time, how to help others have a good time.

Lovino was excited to return to Rome. He missed it desperately, and he worried about Feliciano. And he was so eager to show Antonio up, because Lovino’s painting had improved so drastically—no longer as stiff and tied to the way in which he was taught. Aside from that, he was proud of how he grew as a person. He felt like finally, finally, he had caught up to Antonio, and could be seen as a man in his eyes.

But when he returned to Rome, and spent the first three days alone sneakily wandering about the city and eyeing Antonio’s works, he was struck silent at how beautiful Antonio’s painting was. Nothing he saw in Spain was the same. Antonio was like a celebrity in Rome. Everyone knew his name. Everyone talked about him. It didn’t mean that everyone liked him - it was still very much the elite that liked his works the most - but his _name._ Lovino heard it all the goddamn time.

And then at the Vatican, when Lovino felt collected and prepared, Antonio walked in (as he expected), but he looked so…

When Lovino met him for the first time seven years ago, Antonio was cavalier, kind of a prick, but also incredibly _energetic_. His green eyes were wild, his grin so arrogant, and without any fear, he conquered the opinions and hearts of Rome’s greatest patrons, and established himself as an artist.

And he fought so goddamn much. Like he had to prove himself to anyone who crossed his path, and furious with the burdens he never shared. Antonio was terrifying in a fight. Lovino hated seeing it. It was like Antonio’s soul floated above his body, and Lovino could only see pure, unadulterated emotion rushing out of him, thirsty for blood, and hungry for violence.

And the Antonio Lovino left behind in Rome four years ago, he was more impassioned than energetic. The way he looked at Lovino, heated and steadfast, and the way he managed his reign over Rome’s art world. He was dedicated, firm, but not necessarily calmer. Just all-encompassing. He was everything Lovino wanted to be. Like a king.

That was the Antonio dreamt about in Spain. The Antonio he missed, and the Antonio he remembered with secret longing.

But it was not the Antonio he returned to.

The Antonio he saw in the Vatican was older. _Noticeably_ older. Not so much in the face, as his skin was just as smooth and warm, but in his expression. Lovino thought he was prepared to see him, thought he was ready to dazzle him with his own maturity and his newfound acclaim. But just the sight of Antonio in front of Lovino again, looking so much more like a man than himself, flushed Lovino’s face in a second. He had to hide in a new circle of people just to calm down. His heart raced, but it also _hurt_.

Antonio wasn’t just older, he looked as though he’d survived a war. Lovino didn’t know how else to put it. Antonio was more famous than ever before, but he dressed, somehow, even more haphazardly. Always black, from his hat to his shoes, but they were ratty, stained, with cuts that belonged to someone’s dagger. And the way Antonio surveyed the room, it was so measured—not nearly as emotional and crazed as before. Lovino couldn’t decipher whether it was self-assurance or just complete relinquishment of the rest of his self-preservation.

Antonio wasn’t intimidated at all by Lovino. Or impressed really. In fact it seemed to humor him what a change Lovino had made. But the way he looked at Lovino…even that was different than before. His eyes seemed darker green than usual. Solid and pure. But without any pretenses at all: he looked at Lovino like he was more precious than gold. More precious than art even. If he was ever worried about scaring Lovino off before, he no longer was now. In fact, it felt like Antonio was more dominating. Like he wanted to completely consume Lovino and whisk him away from the rest of the world. A world he seemed to grow tired of more and more.

Lovino was just coming into his own now and finding his stride, but a possessed part of him - whenever he was near Antonio and he could feel the warmth and power - was beginning to _want_ to be consumed.

 

* * *

 

“Oh, Lovino!” Francis gushed rapidly, as he set his glass of wine to the side. One long, slender arm looped around Lovino’s elbow. “Come, come! You’ve been caught in the rain. I’m so very sorry.” He tilted his head closer and smiled. “Would you like to borrow some of brother Francis’s clothes?”

Lovino bristled like a cat and snatched his arm back. He didn’t understand this man. He was ridiculous. How on earth was Antonio friends with him? Sure, he must pay well as a patron, but god what a weird guy.

“I’m fine,” he said flatly and eyed the home. By now Lovino was desensitized to grandeur, he’d seen so much of it. But he was still curious: he had the suspicion that the whole place would be gaudy, but it was actually rather artfully done. Not that he would ever compliment Francis with that.

“Very well,” Francis replied easily. “How about you come through? Everyone is waiting in the dining room.”

“Don’t you have servants to do this?” Lovino asked. Francis seemed like the type to have servants on his beck and call all the time.

“Ah, you know aristocracy so well, don’t you?” Francis smiled as he led Lovino down the corridor. “Alas, I have given them the leave for the week. I am taking a trip to Florence soon. I’m going to do some shopping and see the sights.”

Lovino raised a brow, but said nothing and silently followed. It was eerily quiet for a party. Lovino assume there would be women and men prancing everywhere. Especially the two weird Germans. Maybe even Feliciano. But when he entered the kitchen, it was just Antonio sitting at the expansive dining room table, dressed a tiny bit better than usual (so no rags), and drinking a glass of wine. He looked up at Lovino and Francis and beamed.

Lovino halted his steps and glanced around the room suspiciously. “What kind of party is this? Why is no one else here?”

“No one else?” Francis mocked, and he clutched a hand to his chest. “Why Lovino, you wound me. Who else did you want to be here?” Francis floated to a chair across from Antonio, and his immaculate purple shirt sparkled under candlelight. Then, as if Lovino hadn’t said a word, he tapped the table and poured wine into an empty glass. “Come, come. Have a seat. Are you hungry at all? I have some hors d’oeuvres my servants left me.”

Lovino straightened, as he refused to be unsettled by this man, and took a seat next to Antonio.

“You came,” Antonio said, his gaze and intense, even younger than Lovino had seen it recently. His hair was longer and less kept than usual.

Lovino felt as though there was a subtext he was supposed to address. But he didn’t want to linger on it, so he pressed on. “Well the Vatican is a bore at night, and I had to get out at some point. It was either coming here or letting my grandfather gripe at me all night.”

The good humor of Antonio’s face momentarily vanished and he peered closer. “What has Roma been bothering you about?”

“Oh, just family stuff,” Lovino said dismissively. He didn’t want to trouble Antonio with it; he already seemed _too_ troubled by it. He swiftly changed the subject and directed his attention to Francis. “So you’re Feliciano’s patron too now, right?”

Francis had been lounging in his chair, watching their conversation in avid interest. But swiftly, a smile returned to his face and he brushed some long strands of blond hair from his face. “Yes! I quite love his work, don’t you? It’s so soft. So emotional. It’s as velvet as he is.”

Lovino raised his chin and eyed him. “It doesn’t make sense though. Feliciano was working for other cardinals and patrons until recently. Why is it he only works for you now?”

Lovino felt Antonio tense beside him, and he turned to him hoping he would explain it. Explain everything. But as Antonio stared gloomily at a spot on the table, Francis interjected.

“I suppose you don’t know me well enough yet, darling,” Francis cooed, and a soft laugh escaped his lips. “I love art. So much art. And I’m quite demanding. I’m afraid Feliciano doesn’t have the time to cater to anyone else.” He leaned over the table seductively. “When I like something, I get it. Doesn’t matter the cost.”

Lovino smirked. “Well, just know that if you work him too hard, I’ll be the one you answer to. He’s not an art-making machine.” He couldn’t talk like this with an ordinary patron. Not ever. But Francis was different. He seemed to want everyone to talk to him normally.

“Ah, you’re more protective than Antonio described you to be,” Francis jeered and shared a secret look with Antonio. “But fear not. I will protect Feliciano’s well-being with my life.” Francis dipped his head in reverence. “And Antonio’s too, in case you’re worried.”

“No, I’ll be the one to—” Lovino stopped, realizing what he was about to say. A blush swam to his cheeks and he felt too hot. Antonio and Francis’s stares weren’t helping either. To save face, Lovino looked away and muttered, “Antonio can take care of himself.”

“Of course he can, my dear,” Francis assured easily. Then in a sudden and grand gesture, he rose to his feet. “I just remembered my appointment! I have to visit a lonely young woman tonight. At once. So if you don’t mind house-sitting?”

“I don’t mind at all,” Antonio replied with a salute. “I shall keep the house safe until your return.”

“Thank you, thank you. And it will take a long time. After all, I am going to Florence tomorrow,” he winked to Lovino.

Lovino was overwhelmingly confused. Everything was happening so fast.

A servant materialized from nowhere carrying Francis’s suitcases. “Ah, good. You’re here,” Francis said.

“I thought you gave your servants leave?” Lovino questioned, frustration seeping into his voice. But any sort of negative emotion seemed to slide off of Francis’s skin like he hadn’t even heard it.

“But this is my personal servant, you see. So he is always with me. He shall escort me to my young lady’s abode, so,” he flashed a smile to Antonio and Lovino. “Keep my palace safe. Until later, my darlings.”

“Bring me back some paint from Florence!” Antonio chirped happily.

“Of course, of course,” Francis waved his hand as he left the kitchen. “I hope you both have a wonderful night.” Steps echoed until they were finalized with the slam of the front door.

Lovino was wide-eyed when he turned to Antonio. “What the fuck was that? Why the hell would he invite us to just leave? You have some shitty friends, Antonio. I’m telling you.”

Antonio laughed and shifted closer in his chair. He surveyed Lovino’s face with utmost intensity, verging on vain. “Lovino…I know you know.”

Lovino stopped: stopped breathing, stopped blinking, stopped moving. Stopped.

“You know why I asked you to come here, you know why Francis left,” Antonio insisted. His eyes were searching, wanting. “And you still came.”

Lovino was quiet, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away, no matter how much he wanted to. It felt like they were on the verge of something. The cusp of something that should have happened ages ago. That he’s secretly longed for so many years without realizing it. Yes, he knew. Lovino that dense. He willed himself not to think about it, but a part of him knew what was going on. And what was going to happen.

“Do you want more wine?” Antonio asked, and mercifully released Lovino from his gaze. His hand had already grasped the bottle when Lovino interrupted.

“I don’t want wine,” he said, and without meaning to, his hand sought Antonio’s sleeve.

Antonio abandoned the bottle completely. He grabbed Lovino’s hand, just as it was flying away, and intertwined their fingers. He smiled. How emerald his eyes were. “Should I lead the way then?”

Lovino wasn’t sure whether he was blushing or not. The room felt so heated already. His throat had already closed, but not out of fear. In _anticipation_. He could only nod his head before Antonio led him off the chair, out of the dining room, and away into one of the many rooms.

“This isn’t Francis’s bedroom, is it?” Lovino grumbled quietly. It was very dark inside. Just one candle on a table. Maybe it was better this way.

Antonio laughed easily, but his voice was rough. He pulled Lovino onto the bed, laid him on the covers, and hovered over his head. Dark, messy curls veiled his skin. “I love you,” he said.

Antonio’s face was shadowed in darkness. The only light was his eyes.

Lovino sighed and reached for his hair. “I know already,” he murmured, and pulled Antonio down for a kiss.

This was different than their first kiss. Their first kiss, after all, had been so unexpected, so impulsive, it felt like both of them had lunged at each other. Lovino hardly had time to think or doubt what he was doing, because he was so caught up in the act. And Antonio - the person he wanted so desperately to be, to _surpass_ \- desired him and clung to him.

Now, it felt deliberate. Purposeful. And it reminded Lovino once again, of how much more serious Antonio had become. Everything he did was completed intently; he wasn’t even smiling. Even as he removed Lovino’s clothes, and Lovino removed his.

“Holy shit, Antonio,” Lovino echoed. He was staring at Antonio’s broad, muscular chest and it was covered in scars. This was evidence of Antonio’s secret life that Lovino didn’t want to see. And yet he had to. And it was _so much_. “What the hell have you been getting yourself into?”

Antonio’s laugh was mighty and condescending. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“I am _not_ a child,” Lovino stated firmly and pushed Antonio’s chest away with his palm.

Antonio caught it and dragged him closer than before. “No? Then prove it to me.” Changing the subject once again with a challenge. If this was his way of protecting Lovino…well, it worked to alter the mood at least.

Lovino thought he understood what it meant to have sex with another man. He’d done it once already, after all. He didn’t like it that time. But he was beckoned to try it again with Antonio—the only person he’d ever wanted to be with like this. And it was so different with him.

Lovino felt as though he were suddenly trapped in Antonio’s paintings. Just like that, everything had been become erotic, alluring, and dramatic. It was like Antonio was finally painting him: he touched Lovino the same way he touched his canvas. In control. With complete knowledge and expertise. Lovino didn’t touch the same way. He was used to women after all, and seeing Antonio’s scars, he was almost afraid to feel him.

“Stop treating me like I’m a woman,” Antonio ordered dangerously and his teeth grazed Lovino’s collarbone.

Lovino laughed. As if Antonio could be anything other than a man. But just like their paintings, they each made love in a different way. Antonio demanded pleasure. He acted on instinct. And if he grazed anywhere that made Lovino gasp, Antonio looked as though he was committing it to memory. Lovino, however, was more sensual. Maybe Antonio was right, and maybe it was because he’s slept with far more women. But it also felt as though Lovino was drawing when he held Antonio. Like it was the same process of creating, learning, and realizing all at the same time. And there was so much to learn from Antonio in sex.

At a very inopportune moment, when Lovino was clawing at Antonio’s back, and Antonio was whispering feverishly in his ear, Lovino realized he would never surpass Antonio as a painter. But he wasn’t disappointed. It was almost like relief. He spent so much time agonizing over how to beat Antonio, but maybe that wasn’t what he even wanted. It wasn’t worth it.

Antonio was the most famous painter in Rome. He was a star.

Lovino was debatably the most impressive, young painter now, perhaps even viewed as someone on the rise. And he wanted to be great. Lovino wished for ages to be a great painter. That was still his wish. The only thing that changed—he no longer aspired to be greater than Antonio. He didn’t want anyone to be. Antonio was everything a painter should be. Everything a painter should want to be. Though, if possible, less violent would be nice…

Lovino kissed him. Everything they did was messy now, less coordinated, and more desperate. One of Lovino's less coherent thoughts was noticing how close he and Antonio were and wondering whether they might meld and become an entirely new artist. Or piece of art. _How did he think of that?_ His chuckle was breathy like a sigh, and Antonio was nearby to kidnap him in another kiss. He hated when Lovino's mind wandered. 

What did this mean now? Lovino didn’t know. Perhaps it was the end of an insanely long journey. Like at last, all of the things Lovino has avoided, and all of the things he has worked for, have come to fruition. But it also felt like this marked something new. Something with no clear end or path in sight. Everything was dark.

After ages of pleasure and sweat, Lovino finally passed out to one final thought:

Antonio was the most beautiful goddamn thing he’d ever seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I only reached the halfway point of this chapter's outline before I realized I was pushing over 9k words, so we'll see if there are one or two chapters left now :0 
> 
> Please comment!


	8. Baroque

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hello there! Welcome to the sixth, I mean seventh, I mean final, I MEAN EIGHTH chapter. My, my where the time has gone. No longer is this the short(er) six chapter story I imagined, nor the eight I conceded too. No, no. We are well on our way to a nine chapter fic, maybe ten--because nine as a chapter count is really annoying to look at. >> The only thing that sucks about expanding the chapter count is that I have keep redoing my chapter title organization. Because it really, really matters you know. 
> 
> Two quick notes:
> 
> 1\. I'm probably going to butcher some Spanish thanks to Google Translate, so if y'all have corrections, just shoot them my way, and I'll fix em up as soon as I can. 
> 
> 2\. I mention a sport called calcio Fiorentino for like a paragraph, thinking it was an older version of soccer, but it seems to be more like rugby...Just go with it?
> 
> Anyway, this chapter marks the entrance into the final arc! (Which should have happened last chapter, but w/e.)
> 
> So let me ask you… 
> 
> are you ready for the F A L L ?

_Baroque: is the period of artistic style which used exaggerated motion and clear, easily interpreted detail to produce tension, exuberance, and grandeur in sculpture, painting, architecture, literature dance, theatre, and music. The style began around 1600 in Rome, and was encouraged by the Catholic Church as a way to woo the general public away from the growing Protestant Reformation with the Baroque’s grand theatrical style._

 

* * *

 

Rome, Italy

July, 1602

 

* * *

 

Lovers.

Lovino never thought he’d use that word. He never thought he’d use it for anyone. He never thought it would apply to himself, despite everything that happened in Spain. All of those flings: it wasn’t love. It was barely lust. It was just boredom, loneliness, and a yearning to be older.

But he and Antonio…what else could they call themselves?

They were more than rivals really, even if that was what Lovino wanted at first. And they certainly weren’t friends anymore. Their relationship wasn’t anything like it was before. Now when they met up, Antonio wasn’t there to see his paintings, nor Lovino to see his. They didn’t meet up with the others just to have a good time drinking and sing their way home. Now, they sought each other just to be with each other. Lovino was only making a joke in his head that one night, but maybe they really had melded into one artist. Because it was almost like he wasn’t himself without Antonio anymore. He would be painting his fresco and distantly wondering what Antonio was painting, and what Antonio would say about each stroke he made. Even if they were bickering, or in the same room but not talking, Lovino needed that too.

One new thing he started doing was poking fun at Antonio when they were at taverns, parties, and restaurants. Taunting him even. Always with a smirk on his face. Because by now Lovino had learned that there was some secret force that reigned Antonio back when they were together in public, and he would never lift a finger or get close enough to hug no matter what Lovino said. He would simply smile and look the other way.

And when they were finally alone at night, Antonio would pin him against the wall angrily, possessively, and ravish Lovino in such agonizing delight. Lovino thought it was so funny. And it made him so pleased to have this sort of control over Antonio—he relished in it.

But it wasn’t just for attention, spite, or mischief that he did it. He was also trying to pull the thread at Antonio’s paranoia. He wasn’t this reserved in public before Lovino left for Spain. It was something new, an instinct that had been honed, maybe even exacerbated, over the four years apart. Lovino didn’t like it. He didn’t like seeing Antonio nervous or agitated: it was too abnormal.

Any room they walked into, Antonio all but scouted the perimeter. And he was so on edge that his hand was always near his dagger, his eyes hard and constantly searching, his ears listening for something. _Something._ What was it? If Lovino didn’t know better, it looked as though Antonio was _waiting_ for a fight. Maybe he was. Why else would the former languid arrogance of his manner exchange itself with an agitated rigidity?

It’s not as though Lovino was unaware of the danger in their relationship. He knew it wasn’t something they should flaunt. But since when had Antonio been so afraid to even visit him in the Vatican?

Lovino was constantly surprised how much patience Antonio held for him when he tried to provoke him. Lovino had been playing these games for weeks, and he’d come no closer to breaking him at all.

But he did conclude that there was no other word in the Italian vocabulary to appropriately describe their relationship.

Lovino and Antonio were lovers.  

 

* * *

 

August, 1602

At around eight in the morning one clear Saturday afternoon, Lovino and his grandfather stood at the steps of Feliciano’s house, ready to kidnap him. Feliciano had been locked in either his studio or the church for weeks now, and both Lovino and Roma had had about enough of his isolation. Lovino banged at the door impatiently, and slowly, a sleepy Feliciano crept to the door. He wasn’t as thin as when Lovino first arrived, but he still pertained the air of delicacy about him. As if any little thing could send him over the edge.

“Oh,” he gasped, eyes flicking between his family, and slowly becoming more aware and awake. “What are you guys doing here? Did I forget something? Did something happen? Are either of you ill?”

Lovino rolled his eyes at Feliciano’s presumptiousness about the same time his grandfather responded with more patience.

“Feli, you’ve been holed up in your studio for far too long. You need a break. And Lovino and I need one too. We’re going out,” he said. He crossed his arms to make a point. “And you’re coming.”

Feliciano batted his lashes for a while, clearly very surprised. But slowly he smiled and retreated. He came back dressed in shades of rose petals and bounced out the door.

“Where are we going?” Feliciano asked. His eyes were more chipper and curious now.

“For a day out—I thought we might look at the Pantheon, get something to eat and go to a park,” Roma said simply.

And so they did. The Vargas family made a long walk all the way to the Spanish Steps, and saw the Pantheon. They’d been countless times at this point, but it was a spectacle to revisit from time to time. They lingered among the graves already there.

Roma, deep in thought, and staring intently, said, “I think I’d like to be buried beside Raphael.”

“Oh, Raphael quite suits you, grandpa!” Feliciano exclaimed happily. “I’m sure he’d be so happy to have you lie beside him. What great company!”

Lovino pursed his lips and looked away. A while ago he may have suggested Raphel too, but now…

“What about you Lovino? Do you want to fight me for a spot near Raphael?” his grandfather jeered.

For so, so, many year yes. Lovino would have answered yes, yes, _yes_. In a heartbeat. In an instance. Raphael and Michelangelo were everything he aspired to be. They were his idols and the very persons he wanted to become. But now. Staring at Raphael’s gravestone—it was a much different experience.

Once upon a time, Lovino felt so connected to him. He felt only connected to him or Michelangelo. At sixteen, Lovino believed only the older artists understood his soul. And he fought for that, hoping to be among them in some way, if fashionably late. But now, he wasn’t a Renaissance artist anymore. He couldn’t be a Renaissance artist. The period was well on its end, even if there were some like his grandfather that could not say goodbye. This was the dawn of a new era. An era, perhaps even more controlled by the Catholic Church, but still very much up Antonio’s alley. They wanted theatrics, grandeur, spectacular: anything to diverge the rest of Europe from converting to the Protestant Church. Lovino didn’t know where he played into that. He was a part of the Catholic Church, of course. But did he believe enough in it to change his entire art style to what they wanted? Because slowly, it seemed as if the pope wanted the same dramaticism from Antonio’s works to appear in Lovino’s as well. Lovino himself, well, he was in debate with himself. What did he want?

_Disegno e colore._

_Disegno_ versus _colore._

What did he believe in anymore?

Disegno was the pursuit of the constant. The rational. The activity of imagination and trying your very best to put the natural to paper in its very best form: an artistic triumph of idealization. Not only that, it was the precursor to any other form of artwork. The thought process, and the starting point.

Colore was the emotional and the animation of what was seen. Invented by the Venetians, of which Feliciano and Antonio corresponded to. They appreciated it, and not only learned from it, they grew from it. They understood color as the exceptional tool to produce art at its finest. It was not the drawing or the rational that made great artwork: to them it was the color, the emotion, and the life they breathed into it.

“Lovino,” Feliciano called. They were playing a loose game of _calcio Fiorentino_ now, in the field of an expansive public park. Feliciano passed the ball with a kick. “You seem different these days.”

Lovino caught the ball under his boot and kept it there. He glanced to their grandfather, already passed out under a tree next to an empty bottle of wine, and looked back. He wasn’t quite sure how much to tell Feliciano.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, kicking the ball. His eyes shifted nervously, but he did add, “Antonio and I have been seeing each other a little more.”

Feliciano’s steps stumbled, but he managed to stop the ball. The strangest veil of emotion swept over his face: something Lovino had never seen before. He actually looked…serious. “What do you mean by that?” He passed the ball fast.

Lovino didn’t like the accusatory tone and didn’t even stop the ball before kicking it back harder than before. “I mean what I said. We’re seeing more of each other. What of it?”

Feliciano was on guard this time, and wasted no time kicking the ball back. They weren’t even playing a real game—they were literally just passing the ball back and forth between them. But now it felt aggressive. “And I’m asking _what that means_. I’m your brother, you have to tell me!”

“You wanna play this game?” Lovino snarled, and swung his leg back to kick full force. Feliciano slapped the ball with his hand down to the ground. Lovino pointed to him. “You haven’t told me shit about what happened while I was gone. And I get the feeling everyone knows something I don’t, but they won’t tell me either. So what about your fraternal love now?"

Feliciano’s eyes looked torn and desperate. “Lovino, you just don’t understand! You’re so blind to these things! Rome isn’t like being at the Spanish court. Things are stricter here. Everything we do is for the church and it’s suffocating! If you’re not what they want then—then they just go after you!”

“Not what they want?” Lovino scoffed, and he smiled dryly. “Come on, you’re everything they want. You’re everything this whole new movement wants.”

Feliciano pressed his lips together and kicked the ball, aiming for Lovino’s groin. Lovino squeaked and skipped fast to send the ball down with the heel of his shoe. “What the fuck was that for?” he yelled. Their grandfather stirred under the tree to swat a fly away, but made no move to get up.

“I’m not talking about painting!!” Feliciano shouted back.

“Then what the hell are you talking about?”

“I can’t—I can’t,” Feliciano raked his fingers through his hair. “Why can’t you just _know?”_

“Because I’m not a fucking mind-reader!” Lovino replied angrily, and without warning, he kicked the ball back, sending it flying to Feliciano’s face.

Feliciano wasn’t ready and the ball speedily slammed into his chin, sending him backwards from his unstable stance, until he fell to the grass.

At once, Lovino’s anger evaporated and he cursed, “oh shit!” He hurried over and crouched over Feliciano’s body. Feliciano had his hands pressed tight over his eyes, and his chest was shaking. He was...was he crying? “Jesus, did I hit you that hard? I’m sorry, Feli. I wasn’t thinking. I just got so frustrated and—”

“Lovino,” Feliciano cried, and he turned on his side to grasp Lovino’s hand. “It’s so hard. I feel like they’re always watching.”

Lovino looked at Feliciano’s watering eyes, and he felt so helpless and confused. “Who?” he asked.

“The church!” Feliciano sobbed and his other hand roughly wiped tears away. He kept crying anyway. “Please, just be careful.”

“Careful?” Lovino repeated, his brows furrowed. He leaned closer. “What do you mean careful? I’m not the same shitty brat that’d tell off a cardinal, you know. I won’t piss people off, I promise.”

Their grandfather was now pushing himself up from his nap. He scratched his head and sighed, “Lovino, what did you do to your brother now?”

Ignoring him, Feliciano continued softly, “just don’t get too comfortable, okay? I’m glad you’re happy, but…” More tears spilled from his eyes and his next words were hard to understand. “Just don’t get too comfortable.”

“Did you hit Feli with the ball?” Grandpa Roma demanded sternly.

Lovino was so completely overwhelmed by Feliciano’s meltdown - the first meltdown he’d seen since his return - that he couldn’t move his eyes away from Feliciano’s crying face. He continued to hold his hand, and hesitantly, he pushed away the hair sticking to Feliciano’s tears.

Grandpa Roma tiredly walked over to the two of them and crossed his arms. “Lovino,” he complained. “You gotta be more considerate of your brother.”

Lovino couldn’t disagree. He just wish he knew what he should be considerate about. “I know,” he whispered. Feliciano kept crying.

 

* * *

 

 

“So, my darling Antonio,” Francis purred, and laid back on his blue couch. He was drunk. They were all drunk actually—Francis, Gilbert, and most certainly Antonio. Francis turned on his side and lazily reached for the glass of wine he put on the floor. He sought Antonio’s gaze and smiled. “I’m afraid I’m about to ask a very crude question. Do you mind?”

Antonio was lying on the white couch across from him while Gilbert lay strewn on the carpet. Antonio raised his glass and laughed. “I live for crude questions!”

Gilbert chuckled. “Don’t we all? People are too fucking uptight in Rome. No wonder we’re losing to the Protestants.”

“Go on, Francis.”

“Well,” Francis propped himself against the armrest of the couch. His hair was splayed across the blue of the couch, and his cheeks were tinted red from the wine. “I have a theory about Lovino…a theory I’ve longheld.”

“Didn’t you meet him like,” Gilbert hiccuped. “As soon as he got back?”

“Long held since that moment, then. Yes,” Francis amended smoothly. He found Antonio’s eyes and asked, “is he loud in bed?”

“Oh my god, Francis!” Gilbert guffawed against the carpet, pounding his fist. Then he stopped and glanced over his shoulder, still chuckling. “Wait—actually. That would make a lot of sense. Is he?”

Antonio grinned deviously and perched his chin on his hand. “He is with me.”

Francis and Gilbert spiraled into a fit of laughs. Francis had to abandon his glass on the floor again and Gilbert soon reached for his.

“I knew it, I knew it, I knew it,” Francis giggled. “Italians always are, and Lovino is more Italian than most I’d say.” He sighed happily. “Ah, I’m always right.”

“I bet he’s the type to get all mushy too, right? Saying I love you, I love you over and over again,” Gilbert snickered, and gulped down some more beer.

“Actually, Lovino’s never said that,” Antonio replied more wistfully. “He’s vocal, but he doesn’t usually say anything aside from my name. He’s more tender and physical though. I think secretly, he likes to be touched.”

“Wait,” Francis exclaimed. He had teetered over the edge of his couch on accident whilst grasping his glass of wine. “He doesn’t say I love you during sex or he hasn’t said I love you ever?”

Antonio automatically reached for the bottle to refill his glass. He didn’t want to think about it. “Well, both.”

“Oh, Antonio…”

“Antonio! What the fuck!” Gilbert shouted. He was much more demonstrative with his displeasure than Francis. “You’ve been bending over backwards for this kid for what? Like seven years?”

“Well, I think Lovino might be the one bending over,” Francis joked lightly, but it didn’t quite land.

“Seriously, Antonio,” Gilbert said. “You’re going through hell trying to keep him safe, and he hasn’t once said he loves you or any of that crap?”

Antonio sipped his glass. “Well, he doesn’t exactly know what’s going on…if that’s what you mean,” he said slowly. “But I also think Lovino’s very careful with that word. I’ve never even heard him say it around his family. So it might take some time for him to say it to me.”

“Oh, well that’s rather sad. My family was quite the same—”

“REGARDLESS,” Gilbert shouted. It didn’t seem like he realized the octave of his voice. “He may be protected, but he’s not an imbecile. He must have some idea what you’re going through. And it’s plain as hell he feels the same way, so why hasn’t he said it?”

“Gilbert, I don’t know if you’re being fair. It’s not the same as love between a woman and a man,” Francis explained gently. “There are a lot more consequences. Perhaps Lovino isn’t ready to deal with them.”

“I don’t care about that! If Toni’s ready to deal with them, so should he! They’re basically a couple now, right?!” he yelled.

For many, many years, Antonio would never have considered himself a patient man. But recently, over the past years, maybe he became one. He’s always understood the fear and apprehension that comes with a relationship between two men, but when he was younger, he hardly cared and did it anyway. A devil may care attitude, if you will. He didn’t think about the consequences. He didn’t care about what may happen. It was for the moment, and to fill his need.

But his relationship with Lovino was different in many ways. For one, he had been waiting a long time even for the possibility of it to happen. And even aside from that, Antonio _worshipped_ Lovino. He loved him and adored him. He constantly had to quelch his want to whisk him away from the rest of the world and keep him for himself. All of the precious innocence Lovino had left—Antonio didn’t want to be the one to take it. He wanted to love him. Ravish him. Consume him. But not take the purity of his soul. If Lovino didn’t understand the consequences than so be it. Antonio would handle it for the both of them.

Gilbert and Antonio were still drawling in their conversation, and eventually Antonio tuned in.  

“I really don’t care about that,” he said, slightly laughing. It was more a lie than a joke. “I know Lovino feels the same way, so as long as he’s with me, I’m fine.”

“You know, Tony? I know what you mean. It’s like when you have a special connection with someone and you hardly need to speak.”

“What the hell are you guys talking about?” Gilbert bellowed, now drained of his beer glass. “Look—if Lovino is worth it, then you gotta make sure he’s invested. That’s all I’m saying. Because right now, it looks to me as though you, Toni, are putting in all of the work. And then some.”

Francis sighed complacently and raised a glass to his lips. “But it’s not that simple, Gilbert. Not between to men. Although brash, Lovino seems…almost protected from reality. Maybe it was because of his grandfather. Maybe it’s his personality. Or maybe it was his time in Spain, I don’t know.” Francis leaned back on the couch. “It’s not that simple.”

“I don’t care!” Gilbert complained and pounded his fists once more against the carpet. His beer glass shook with it. “I didn’t waste half my life helping you charm some brat just so he could use you and let you take the downfall!”

Gilbert was being bitter now, and even within the clouds of Antonio’s drunk brain he realized that. It made him smile, because his friends really did care. They just didn’t understand. Not completely. Because Antonio would give his life for Lovino. Not just to save Lovino’s life, but to save everything else about him. Lovino was the end all, be all to him. He was his treasure. The person he was sworn to protect.

“I love him though,” Antonio sighed wistfully. He smiled and looked to the intricate flowers on Francis’s wallpaper. “So what can you do?”

“Knock some sense into him,” Gilbert quipped.

Francis dozed on the armrest, eyes rather heavy. “Continue to love him, and hope for the best.”

Antonio drifted to a deep sleep. There were no dreams. Just soft blackness. And it was so comforting, because finally he felt himself relax.

 

* * *

 

September, 1602

Antonio was staring blankly at his painting one day when a thought occurred to him. If he weren’t so famous, and if Lovino weren’t so watched, would there really be a problem in their relationship? Because right now they were both important people: important painters in Roman society, and particularly within the Catholic church. They were both seen as tools of the trade; the church’s provocateurs of Catholicism’s far and grand reach. And of course, being an artist was like being a magician. Even the common people regarded Antonio and Lovino with curiosity, envy, and awe.

So were they doomed to choose between their passion of career and passion of love? Antonio was trying desperately to find a way around it, but to no avail. They had to be so careful, so secretive, and trapped always in the darkness and safety of the night. In any of Antonio’s other lustful pursuits, it had been easier to hide, because they didn’t matter. The person didn’t matter to Antonio, and Antonio certainly didn’t matter to him. So they could go to the secret dingy taverns people like them went to.

But Lovino was different: as a person and to Antonio. As a person, Lovino was emotionally very slow. It took years for a relationship to finally blossom between them. But Lovino was accustomed to a life at the Spanish court, and love with women. So it seemed in some fashion, he didn’t grasp the full severity of their situation. That, or he was trying very successfully to avoid it. And to Antonio, Lovino was special, so he couldn’t treat this as a fling, or something casual. So the issue lied in how it was going to continue. How it was even possible for it to continue. The more they saw of each other, and the longer they remained single men, suspicions would soon begin to grow, if they hadn’t already.

Antonio sighed and picked up his paintbrush. He had to continue working anyway. This train of thought had a way of dragging him into a dark and weary place, which he really didn’t have much time for.

So he painted. All day and everyday. Until Grandpa Roma barged into his studio, looking older, and impossibly more stern than ever before. Gilbert, Ludwig, and Antonio all turned to him, but Roma only looked to Antonio.

“Hello Carriedo,” he greeted tersely. “Do you mind if I have a word with you outside?”

Gilbert made eye contact with Antonio, but Antonio shook it off. He smiled darkly to Roma and replied, “yes, of course. Just give me a moment.” He set aside his brush and palette on the table and wiped some paint off of his hands with a rag. Then he stood up and loomed over Roma. “Let’s speak outside then, shall we?” Antonio brushed past him and stalked down the hallway and through the front door. It was relatively bustling outside so they walked to the same quiet alleyway Antonio brought Lovino to some time ago. But Antonio and Roma both remained standing and on guard.

“So what is it that’s brought you to see me?” Antonio asked easily, though he had some guesses already.

“Lovino,” Roma deadpanned. His brown eyes burned. “You’re seeing far too much of him. I want you to keep your distance.”

Antonio’s smile shrunk, but was still here. “I’d say Lovino is past the age for your coddling, don’t you think?”

“Quit playing dumb,” Roma quipped. “You know exactly what I mean, and I know exactly what you’re doing. I want you to quit trying to lure him into your world. You’re going to ruin him if you keep doing this.”

 _And what would Roma say if he told him he’d already “lured” Lovino,_ Antonio thought dryly.

“Lovino,” Antonio began slowly, forcefully. “Is making his own decisions. I’m not pulling him into anything.”

 _“You are,”_ Roma insisted, and he took a step closer. “Don’t think I’ve been blind to your intentions all these years. I knew you were infatuated with him, and I knew Lovino was completely blind to it. But just because Lovino is older now it doesn’t mean it’s an opportunity for you to drag him down. If you really cared about him you wouldn’t force this—this _lifestyle_ on him.” His eyes flickered in pain. “We both know it never ends well.”

 _Ah, so he did know about Feliciano after all,_ Antonio closed his eyes. _Of course he did. How could he not?_

Roma watched Antonio’s fallen face with some satisfaction. His next words were more hesitant. “Look, Carriedo…I respect you as a painter. And despite all of your faults, I don’t hate you. Really,” he insisted gently. “But this is my grandson, and I’d die before I let him throw his life away for something that just isn’t possible.” He waited for a reply, but Antonio stayed quiet. “Well, I’ve given you my warning. I hope you take it to heart, because I’m not backing down.” He let his heavy gaze weigh on Antonio’s head, and eventually turned around to walk the other way.

“I won’t let anything happen to him,” Antonio called out, and Roma stopped. Antonio’s eyes were determined and bright green. “I’ll protect him with my life, I promise you.”

Roma’s shoulders sank, and he sighed again. “That’s not good enough, Carriedo.” He walked away with no other reply.

 

* * *

 

 

“What did he want?” Gilbert demanded when Antonio walked in. He was standing at the door like he’d been posted there since Antonio left (probably the case). His red eyes were sharp and searching.

Antonio tried to laugh, but he made the strangest noise instead. Like a breathy cough. “As you can imagine, he wanted to talk about Lovino.” Antonio walked over to his stool and dropped onto it. Gilbert kept following him.

“Did he threaten you?” Gilbert demanded.

“More or less, I think that’s what he was trying to do,” Antonio rolled his eyes and picked up his paintbrush. He kept it in his hand and made no move for the canvas.

Gilbert’s foot tapped on the floor, and Ludwig groaned from across the room. He detested this nervous habit of Gilbert’s.

“Well, you gotta tell Lovino then,” Gilbert ordered with a nod of his head. “This is the right time to just lay it all on the table.”

“And how well would that conversation go, do you think?” Antonio replied sarcastically. “I mean where exactly would I even begin?” With Ludwig in the room, Antonio didn’t want to mention Feliciano’s name, but it was basically implied. “I see no scenario where I explain everything to Lovino and he doesn’t run away.”

“I. Don’t. Care,” Gilbert said slowly, leaning his head down. “Things can’t stay as they are now, and even someone as dense as you must realize it. So something’s got to change, and that can’t happen until you and Lovino are on the same page.”

Antonio hated this autocratic side to Gilbert sometimes. Why can’t he just butt out for a second so Antonio could hear himself think? If only Francis were here. He’d offer emotional support and not try shoving orders down Antonio’s throat.

Antonio raised his hand up in defeat/defense. “Just give me some time to think, okay?”

Gilbert gritted his teeth. “Fine,” he muttered. He didn’t like it when things were messy like this. But this wasn’t some room for him to organize. This was a web Antonio had to find a way to crawl through without letting himself or Lovino get caught.

Slowly they all resumed painting, and not one of them was in good humor for days afterward.

 

* * *

 

There were many patterns to Antonio’s behavior, and they could be quantified as followed: paint, wine, fight, sex, and sleep. But there were also outliers that didn’t quite fit into the Antonio character Lovino had come to know. Like the Antonio who suddenly wanted to nap and snuggle all day, without a care in the world. Or like right now, the Antonio that ogled too long at plant nurseries and florist shops. He’d done it before of course, but now it happened with more purpose, maybe even more longing.

“Hm,” Antonio sighed as he sniffed a flower. His skin was bright in the sun and his eyes sparkled like grass in the summer. He shifted his attention to a plant, and carried the same melancholy happiness. “You know, Lovino. One day I would quite like to have a garden. Full of tomatoes and flowers, and other plants. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Lovino stared at him. He was leaning over the plant too, with his gaze very close to Antonio’s from across the leaves. He could feel the heat of Antonio’s breath. “I think that’d be nice,” he’d say casually. “But do you think you could take care of them?”

“Ah,” Antonio laughed, and his eyes twinkled, returning slightly to the Antonio Lovino knew too well. “If I love something, I will always take care of it.”

Lovino felt Antonio’s gaze turn to him meaningfully, and he turned away to hide his blush. He was embarrassed only because he knew it was true. Antonio had the horrible habit of only speaking his mind.

“Well,” Lovino coughed, standing up straighter. “Then I guess you should have been a farmer in another life.”

Antonio laughed and buried his face deeper in the leaves, inhaling the scent of fertilizer and tomatoes deeply. “In another life,” he repeated like a song.

This wasn’t the only instance of Antonio’s character breaking. It was one of many—none of which remained for too long. They were like blinks in his overpowering persona. Like careful, unexpected pauses of a personality more vulnerable, and more wanting of a life much simpler.

There was another instance, when Antonio and Lovino were together at a tavern late at night. It was a dirty, filthy establishment, where the floor was soaked in alcohol and the air reeked of sweat and drunk men. But Lovino was with Antonio so he hardly spared a concerned comment. They were so rarely together in public.

But as they were leant over the table, close in discussion, a flash burst across Antonio’s face and he lunged back. Before Lovino could even ask what was the matter Antonio spoke first.

“Lovino,” he began slowly, as his eyes surveyed the room. “Perhaps it would be good for you to court a woman.”

It was as though Lovino’s world stopped at that sentence. He could only stare blankly, hoping, and _waiting_ it was a joke. Just a tease. Just a try at getting a reaction from him. Because it was working, god dammit. And he wasn’t appreciating the joke, that was for sure.

“What?” Lovino blurted. His brows were furrowed and he glared at Antonio almost in a blaze.

Antonio barely looked at him. His eyes were everywhere else: the room, the people, the atmosphere. He briefly glanced at Lovino before he replied, “you should court a woman. It’ll be safer.”

“You’re joking, right?” Lovino asked and his eyes were cross. “What the hell are you talking about? I know that’s not what you want.”

But Antonio didn’t smile, and his gravity never wavered. He was serious. “You don’t have to marry her,” he said carefully. His gaze kept looking to a certain part of the room. “But it’ll be safer if you’re seen courting a woman.”

Safer? Since when did Antonio care about safe? Lovino thought he was all about danger and doing whatever he wanted. That’s what Lovino admired about him. And now Antonio was talking about being _safe?_

“Did someone knock your head over the table while I wasn’t looking?” Lovino’s fist clenched. “Antonio Carriedo doesn’t care about ' _safety'_. That’s bullshit.”

Finally, Antonio’s eyes flashed back to him and they were warning and dark. “But I do, Lovino. I’ve always cared for your safety.”

Lovino’s face flushed, but he kept his gaze firm. “But you’re trying to push me away!”

“Not push away. Just…gain a little distance. To keep you safe.”

“From what?!”

“Me,” Antonio said gravely.

Lovino physically felt that word, and it sent him leaning backwards until he gripped the table with his hands. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Without thinking, he rose from the table and flew to the exit of the tavern, because he just had to _Get Away_ from everything Antonio was saying. Lovino didn’t like it. He didn’t like hearing any of it. And it hurt his heart, but he couldn’t figure out _why._

Lovino was pushing through the drunk crowds of the streets and wiping tears from his eyes. He wasn’t getting far very fast. But he also didn’t know where he was going.

Antonio was…Antonio had been his goal for so long. The rival he wanted, and the painter he wanted to be. And now that they were together, Antonio was talking like he was a curse, but Lovino just didn’t see it. He thought they were better together. He never said it, but secretly he thought they were. Lovino was happier, so he assumed Antonio was too.

Lovino bit his hand to stifle a sob. He couldn’t let these men see him cry. He just had to get home somehow.

Then he felt a touch on his back, and an arm loop around his shoulders guiding him firmly through the crowd.

“Where do you want to go?” Antonio asked. His voice hushed the laughs and clamor of the crowd, and it eased Lovino’s heart a bit.

Lovino was going to go home, but he really didn’t see the Vatican as home, and honestly, he didn’t want to go there. He just wanted to be with Antonio. Was that still okay? He didn’t realize he was still biting his palm, but then Antonio gently pulled it away and held it close. They stopped at a darkened corner of a building, away from people, and Antonio gently kissed Lovino’s hand. Lovino was trying his damnest not to cry, but it was getting really fucking hard and he used his free arm to cover his eyes.

“Lovino, it’s okay. I promise,” Antonio whispered, and his breath neared. He wrapped Lovino in a hug. “Do you want me to take you home?”

Where the fuck was home?! Lovino wanted to scream it at the top of his lungs. He finally started crying and holding onto Antonio’s back for dear life. “ _I just_ —,” he began, but he was so goddamn embarrassed his throat was closing up. “I just want to be with you,” he admitted.

Antonio brushed his hands through Lovino’s hair and nodded. “Okay,” he murmured. “Follow me.”

Hasn’t Lovino been following Antonio his whole life? Antonio didn’t need to ask anymore. Lovino would follow him anywhere.

 

* * *

 

Lovino did begin courting a woman. Antonio kept insisting, and more out of vengeance, he did exactly as Antonio asked—because there was no way that was what Antonio actually wanted right? So Lovino thought maybe Antonio would realize that when he started.

And the girl was nice enough. She was Italian, and respectable, and came from a small patron family herself, so she knew the art world. And Lovino always had a good time talking to women, so it’s not like it was hard. But it did make him feel guilty. And lonely. And just all around odd when he went home for the night.

When his grandfather found out, he was over the moon. He laughed and opened a bottle of wine and continued to make embarrassing jokes of marriage through the night. Feliciano seemed a bit torn, but still offered Lovino enthusiasm.

It all felt completely wrong to Lovino though. He was never a great liar, and now he was supposed to be leading a double life. And to make things worse, Antonio was acting like it was the _best thing in the whole world_. He even came by to meet the girl, and was more gentlemanly than Lovino had ever seen him. And Lovino was getting a headache realizing his actual lover was charming his fake courtship, while Lovino was standing in the same room. Did it count as a love triangle when the third person had no fucking clue what was going on?

And then to make things _even_ worse, Antonio started seeing him less. He didn’t drop by the Vatican as often, or visit Lovino’s home. He didn’t make efforts to see him at all actually, and then it resulted in Lovino being the one to bang on Antonio’s studio door and tell him they’re going to dinner (AKA spending the night together). And Antonio was always eager to please of course, and the debonair returned in a second. But if Lovino didn’t come find him, Antonio never lifted a finger.

Lovino wasn’t used to this. He wasn’t used to pursuing: at least for anything aside from art. In Spain people flung themselves onto him, and Antonio had historically been pining for him for years. So it was humiliating to suddenly be put in the position of the pursuer. And Lovino didn’t like it. He wanted to see how long it’d take for Antonio to come crawling back, so he cut off all contact and spent his time exclusively with the girl.

 _A full two weeks passed._ Lovino was about to pull out his hair. He ended up finishing work and beelining straight for home to drink a whole bottle of wine, before passing out on the kitchen table where he was drinking. He always left the windows open: for the breeze, yes, but also in case Antonio ever stopped by.

And while Lovino was drifting in shallow, drunk sleep he heard someone whispering, and then someone glomping onto his back.

“Hm,” Lovino’s eyes opened wearily. He wasn’t a heavy drinker, but usually a bottle of wine didn’t mean he couldn’t understand what other people were saying. But the whispers dancing over his ears didn’t make any sense.

“Lovino.”

Oh. That drawl was familiar. Antonio had essentially fallen over Lovino’s shoulders and buried his head against Lovino’s neck.

“Antonio?” Lovino called, trying to pry the grip from his shoulders. “Hey, get off of me. What are you doing?”

Antonio said something slurred and fast, but Lovino didn’t understand it.

Lovino laughed, because 1. Yes!! He won. And 2. Antonio was _stupidly_ drunk. “Okay, I can’t understand what you’re saying. Let go of me. You’re talking into my skin.”

Antonio registered the order, and woozily removed himself from Lovino’s back and stood by the table. His hand automatically reached for Lovino’s empty wine bottle and shook it. No liquid swished inside, and he dropped it on the counter with a sigh.

Lovino kicked out a chair, and pulled Antonio’s arm downwards. “Here,” he said, and Antonio collapsed into the chair. “I think you’ve probably had enough to drink.”

 _“Nunca es suficiente,”_ Antonio complained and his arms fell onto the table, so his head rested above them. His eyes were murky and faraway.

Oh, Antonio was speaking Spanish (or some drunk, slurred version of it). Lovino was secretly fascinated; he’d never heard Antonio speak Spanish before. “What happened to the feisty drunk you used to be,” Lovino joked and poked Antonio’s arm.

 _“Sólo quiero irme,”_ Antonio yawned and he reached for Lovino’s arm, pulling it close in a strong grip. _“Vamos a ir ambos.”_

Lovino had picked up Spanish living in Spain, but between his bottle of wine and Antonio’s unknown amount, he really couldn’t make heads or tails of what Antonio was droning on about. Something silly, he was sure.

“You know I don’t have a clue what you’re saying, right?” Lovino replied and he tried to release his arm and failed. Antonio was strong even when he was drunk. But he pushed his chair away and tried to drag Antonio upwards. “Come on, let’s go to bed.”

“No,” Antonio whined and tried to bring Lovino down to his level.

Lovino laughed, because _Jesus,_ this was the silliest part of Antonio he’d seen yet. “I say yes. Come on. We’ll sleep better on the bed.” He planted his feet down and used all of his strength to haul Antonio’s body up and balanced against Lovino’s side. Lovino basically dragged Antonio the way to his bedroom and flung him onto the bed. “You’re really goddamn heavy, you know that?” Lovino panted, as he grabbed Antonio’s boots and began tugging them off his feet. With a few grunts, one came off. Small victory.

“Lovino, _sabes cuánto te amo?”_ Antonio rolled in the bed. It seemed like he was looking for Lovino.

“I’m right here,” Lovino deadpanned, and he successfully pulled off Antonio’s other boot. He was able to make sense of Antonio’s last sentence and replied, “yeah, I know.” He circled around the bedframe and perched himself on the edge to pull his own shoes off. Antonio the back of Lovino’s shirt and sent him landing on the mattress, with Antonio’s face hovering above him.

“I miss you,” Antonio said, returning to Italian.

Lovino blushed and pushed Antonio away to get his boots off. “It’s your own damn fault. You’re the one who decided to stop seeing me.” His boots fell to the floor and he climbed in bed. Antonio was curled over a pillow and lying above the covers. “You look like a cat,” Lovino chuckled.

But _really drunk_ Antonio was still a bit like drunk Antonio, who didn’t take very kindly to teasing. He trapped Lovino in a hold and held him near his chest. Antonio reeked of wine, but he was also so warm, and without covers, Lovino returned the embrace to hide himself from the chill of night air.

“Why are you distant?” Lovino asked quietly.

Antonio was drifting away, but still mumbled drunk words. “Let’s just go,” he sighed. “To Malta. Spain. Anywhere.”

Seemed as though Lovino could only pursue Antonio’s train of thought now. “Why would you want to leave Rome?”

Antonio held Lovino tighter. “I’m so tired of fighting.”

Those words scared Lovino. He didn’t know an Antonio that didn’t fight. Antonio was always fighting. What would an Antonio who didn’t fight even be?

“I’m just so tired, Lovino,” Antonio continued in slurs. “Why do I have to keep fighting? I just want to sleep.”

“W-well, you can sleep now,” Lovino replied with a stutter. He tried to remain confident, but truly he was thrown for a loop.

“Can I really sleep now?” Antonio asked dreamily. The softness of his grip told Lovino he was already beginning to fade away.

Lovino pressed his ear to Antonio’s chest, checking his heartbeat. Okay, that was still going. Antonio wasn’t actually dying right now. “Of course you can,” Lovino murmured.

“Okay,” Antonio whispered. “I love you.” His breaths came heavier, and he was out like a light.

Lovino stayed awake for a while longer, making sure Antonio was really okay. Maybe he was just incredibly, stupidly drunk. Maybe if Antonio drank too much he actually got soppier? And obviously he drank too much. But what was with that tone? And the things he was saying? Why did he sound so different?

Lovino held him close through the night, trying to keep him there, but in the morning Antonio had already gone. Lovino found himself under the covers and the windows closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Nunca es sufficiente." -- It's never enough.  
> "Sólo quiero irme." -- I just want to go away.  
> "Vamos a ir ambos." -- Let's just both go away.  
> “Lovino, sabes cuánto te amo?” -- Lovino, do you know much I love you?
> 
> Sorry there was such a delay!! I got so burned out from this fic, I needed a break. But now I'm going to try and crank out the final arc as speedily as I can :))
> 
> Thank you for your patience, and for reading! Please comment!


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